Fallon Henley was born Theresa Schuessler, but wrestling fans know that name about as well as they know their dentist’s first. She came into this world in Tampa, Florida, where the sun melts the asphalt and the mosquitos are the size of small drones. Raised in Chelsea, Michigan—a place where dreams tend to rust over like old Fords left in a cornfield—she carried grit in her pockets and broken glass in her voice.
By the time she was twenty-three, she’d traded criminology textbooks for wristlocks, her cleats for boots, and the safe comfort of a nine-to-five for the madhouse allure of pro wrestling’s backroads. She debuted in 2017 as Tesha Price in World Xtreme Wrestling, where the rings creaked like dying floorboards and the crowd smelled like hot dogs and bad decisions.
She spent the next few years chasing relevance in every dive bar and bingo hall that called itself a promotion. AEW gave her 21 matches and zero handshakes. Shine Wrestling tossed her in a battle royal and forgot to tell the camera crew. But she kept going. Maybe because quitting wasn’t an option. Maybe because the ring was the only place that ever made sense.
Then came WWE.
The first time Theresa showed up in NXT, she was Tenilla Price and took a boot from Lacey Evans. Blink and you missed it. A few more names came and went—Anna Scheer, Tesha Price again—but when she finally landed on “Fallon Henley,” it stuck. Like barroom blood on a white blouse.
WWE repackaged her as a “country girl” with a heart full of resolve and a family bar she was desperately trying to save. She was paired with Brooks Jensen and Josh Briggs—two good ol’ boys with more brawn than brains. Together they looked like the cast of Varsity Blues had wandered into a soap opera.
But don’t let the Daisy Dukes and drawl fool you—Henley had teeth.
In 2023, she and corporate ice queen Kiana James formed a reluctant tag team. The oil-and-water combo improbably won the NXT Women’s Tag Team Championships at Vengeance Day. For a moment, Fallon looked like the second coming of Trish Stratus dipped in moonshine. But it ended the way things always do in wrestling and whiskey joints—with betrayal, heartbreak, and a backstage segment that ends in slow-motion stares.
After the tag titles slipped through her fingers and the bar drama cooled, Henley found herself in wrestling purgatory. Her friends broke up the band. Her ex-partner turned heel. And she, well, she got tired of playing the good guy.
By mid-2024, something inside her cracked. Maybe it was the missed main roster call-up. Maybe it was the snot-nosed recruits skipping the queue thanks to NIL deals and TikTok followers. But Fallon Henley—the gal from the bar, the plucky underdog—vanished in a puff of rage.
In her place: a stiletto-wearing, venom-tongued operator with a chip on her shoulder the size of Vince McMahon’s yacht. She stopped holding the door open for others and started slamming it in their faces. She aligned with Jacy Jayne and Jazmyn Nyx to form Fatal Influence, a faction of high heels and low morals. They were Mean Girls with powerbombs—snakes wrapped in rhinestones.
And wouldn’t you know it, the devil paid out.
At Halloween Havoc, Henley did what every bitter has-been dreams of doing—she made the crowd boo and clap in the same breath. She won the inaugural NXT Women’s North American Championship by surviving a gauntlet match and pinning Kelani Jordan—thanks to some well-timed interference from her new sisters in sin.
She defended that belt with the grace of a wrecking ball. She stomped on rookies, mocked the fans, and grinned while doing it. But in wrestling, every reign is just a countdown to collapse. After 111 days, Stephanie Vaquer came calling with fists of thunder and stole the title clean. Fallon had nothing to say. Just a stare like a woman who lost her job, her pride, and her dog in the same week.
Still, she wasn’t done. At The Great American Bash, Henley headlined her first PLE alongside Jayne. They lost to Jordynne Grace and Blake Monroe, but Fallon looked the part—like a villainess from a 1970s B-movie: sultry, dangerous, and absolutely tired of your shit.
Fallon Henley isn’t your favorite wrestler. She’s the one who lingers in your memory like a cigarette burn on leather. She’s the third drink on a Wednesday night—unwise, but exactly what you needed. Her story is stitched with barroom brawls, heartbreak, and betrayals—inside and out of kayfabe. She plays heel now, but even when she was a face, you always knew something wild was waiting underneath.
Pro wrestling is full of shiny new toys. Henley ain’t one of them. She’s the scratched-up jukebox in the back of the bar—loud, off-key, but honest. And when it’s her song playing, you either get on the floor or get out of the way.
She ain’t done yet.
She just changed the tempo.