Before she read fortunes, she wrote pain. Before she became Lady Suzanne, psychic of the South Florida spirit realm, she was Vivian St. John—boots, blonde hair, and one of the tallest women ever to walk into a wrestling ring in the mid-1970s. At six feet tall, she wasn’t just a presence—she was a billboard for the kind of toughness you couldn’t teach. You had to be born with it. Or beaten into it.
Born Suzanne Miller on September 10, 1950, in Cincinnati, Ohio, she wasn’t chasing superstardom. She was chasing freedom. And in the wrestling business, that freedom came with receipts—blisters on the soul and bruises that never healed right. She trained under The Fabulous Moolah, which, back then, meant learning how to bump, grab a hold, and survive the politics of a business that gave women TV time only when there was blood or bikinis involved.
Vivian St. John made her debut on August 6, 1974. It wasn’t a glamorous time to break into the business. Women’s wrestling was an afterthought—a side act, an occasional “special attraction” sandwiched between midget matches and tag-team brawls. But St. John didn’t flinch. She stepped into that ring like she owned it, even if the world never gave her the deed.
She wasn’t alone. Sue Green was her partner in crime—a fellow bruiser with a cowgirl gimmick that played better in Texas towns and Kentucky armories than it ever did on prime time. Together, they were cowgirls in the most literal sense: rugged, no-nonsense, and probably more comfortable in a pair of boots than any of their male counterparts.
Vivian wasn’t flashy. She wasn’t a cover girl. She was a workhorse. She made her living the hard way—driving town to town, eating diner food at midnight, and climbing into rings where the ropes were stiff, the crowds were drunk, and the paychecks were small and late. That’s the wrestling life she knew. The one where you packed your bag and prayed you got booked again next week.
In 1986, the road ended—or maybe it just curved. She found herself pregnant, carrying her daughter Nicole, and decided to retire. The business never gave her a proper sendoff. There were no commemorative matches, no video montages. She just faded from the spotlight like most women of that era—unnoticed but unforgettable to those who watched her kick and claw her way through the circuit.
But Vivian St. John didn’t disappear.
She transformed.
She became Lady Suzanne, psychic. Tarot cards, intuition, and spirit talk. It sounded strange at first—like a wrestler’s post-career punchline. But in reality, it made sense. She had always been intuitive, always carried that knowing look like she’d seen more than she let on. She contributed to a 2012 book called Curses and Their Reversals, a fitting title for a woman who spent her first life breaking bones and her second trying to undo the damage people carry inside.
There’s poetry in that.
She was the kind of woman who could slam you to the mat in ‘76 and read your aura in 2010. The kind of woman who could look into your eyes and see both your trauma and your talent. That’s not a gimmick. That’s evolution.
Vivian’s brother, Bryan, was also a wrestler. It was in the blood. But it was Suzanne—Vivian—Lady Suzanne—who carved out something truly rare. She lived multiple lives, all under the same skin, all with that quiet resilience that people forget to write songs about.
She passed away on December 20, 2013, in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, after a long illness. She was 63. No national headlines. No WWE tweet. Just a footnote in a history she helped shape.
She left behind her daughter Nicole, the living proof that sometimes walking away from the ring is the bravest thing a wrestler can do.
Vivian St. John never headlined WrestleMania. She never held a major televised title. But she showed up, laced her boots, and did the job in an era when women’s wrestling was more novelty act than respected sport.
And she did it with steel in her spine and grace in her silence.
She deserves to be remembered—not just for the matches, but for the metamorphosis. For the bruises and the blessings. For every bump she took in anonymity, and every spirit she read in peace.
Because sometimes the toughest wrestlers don’t die in the ring.
Sometimes, they become legends in the quiet.
