We were lucky to catch up with Christina Hornyak recently and have shared our conversation below.

Hi Christina , thanks for joining us today. The first dollar your business earns is always special and we’d love to hear how your brand made its first dollar of revenue.

When I first decided to open my studio, I knew I wasn’t just starting a business—I was building a mission. I wanted survivors to have access to beautiful, hyper-realistic areola tattoos, regardless of their income or insurance status. But even with all that heart, I still had to start somewhere… and it wasn’t easy.

I used what little money I had to design and print marketing materials—postcards, brochures, anything that could tell the story of what I was offering. I drove around town with a stack in my passenger seat, stopping at every plastic surgeon’s office I could find. I’d walk in, introduce myself, hand over my materials, and smile through the discomfort of cold pitching something I cared so deeply about. Then I waited. And waited. Days turned to weeks. No calls. Not even a polite email. I started to wonder if they were even being read.

Then, finally—a message.

A physician assistant from a plastic surgery center reached out to ask about A.R.T. (Areola Restoration Tattooing) and pricing. I’ll never forget how my heart pounded when I saw that message. It was the tiniest thread of hope, and I clung to it like a lifeline.

I knew I needed a way to both prove myself and help people. So I offered to take five patients for free—no catch—just women who were in need and comfortable with allowing non-identifying photos or videos to help build my portfolio. Those five women were everything. They trusted me. We cried together. They left with tears in their eyes and a piece of their story finally, beautifully completed.

Those early moments were sacred. They gave me the photos and testimonials I needed to show the world what I could do—and more importantly, what they could finally feel.

Not long after that, the phone started ringing.

The same offices I had visited months earlier—offices that had never returned my calls—were now reaching out. One surgeon even said, “I wish I’d known about you sooner,” and I had to politely smile while thinking, I left my brochure on your front desk three months ago.

That’s when I learned something that’s shaped my business ever since: You cannot be afraid to follow up. You can’t be afraid to be “annoying.” You have to keep showing up. Because people are busy, and even the most well-intentioned offices can overlook something life-changing if it only crosses their path once.

That first earned dollar didn’t come directly from those free clients—but it came because of them. It came from the trust I built, the stories they shared, and the proof that what I was offering wasn’t just cosmetic—it was healing.

And that moment? That first real client who paid full price for my service?

It felt like I’d cracked open a door into the life I was meant to live.

Christina , love having you share your insights with us. Before we ask you more questions, maybe you can take a moment to introduce yourself to our readers who might have missed our earlier conversations?

I’m Christina Hornyak, and I specialize in hyper-realistic areola tattooing for breast cancer survivors. I also offer permanent makeup, paramedical tattooing, scar revision, and fine art commissions—including slow-crafted, richly layered oil paintings. But at the core of everything I do is one goal: helping people feel more at home in their skin after life-altering experiences.

My journey into this field wasn’t born out of trend—it was born out of purpose.

I come from a creative background with deep roots in traditional art. My love for drawing and painting gave me a strong foundation, but I’ve always had the heart of a helper. I wanted my work to mean something more—to do something more than just look pretty. When I discovered the world of paramedical tattooing, it felt like all the pieces of my life clicked into place. It was a path where I could combine my artistic skill with deep empathy, trauma-awareness, and technical excellence to restore dignity and beauty to people who’ve been through hell.

My studio, Alchemy, is located in Charleston, WV, but my mission goes far beyond city limits. I provide services across the state—particularly in underserved rural areas—and I’m deeply committed to making life-changing tattoo services accessible to people regardless of income. That’s why I bill insurance for areola tattooing, offer grant funding for those under $75k/year who aren’t covered, and I’ve even been known to travel to patients when needed. My work solves a major problem in our low-income Appalachian region: the lack of affordable, trauma-informed post-mastectomy care options.

What sets me apart isn’t just my technical skill—it’s my approach.

I don’t rush. I don’t upsell. I don’t see people as dollar signs. I listen. I educate. I create safe, quiet spaces for survivors to reclaim ownership of their bodies. My clients often tell me they feel more seen and supported in my studio than they have in years. Some cry with relief. Some laugh. Some sit in stunned silence. Whatever the moment calls for, I hold space for it.

I’m also a trainer, sharing my knowledge with other artists who want to do this work with integrity. As someone with ADHD, I understand what it’s like to face learning hurdles and burnout, so I design my educational programs with compassion, structure, and real-world application. I believe that knowledge should be passed down in a way that’s accessible and empowering—not gatekept.

I’m proud of so much—my growing list of advanced certifications, the grants I’ve secured to help more survivors, and being accepted into an elite paramedical tattoo retreat in Texas where I’ll train with two of the top artists in the world. But honestly? I’m proudest of the tears. Of the quiet thank-yous whispered in my studio. Of the woman who finally looked in the mirror and said, “I feel whole again.”

If you’re new here, here’s what I want you to know:

You don’t have to suffer in silence or settle for subpar care.

There are options, and I will help you navigate them.

I’m here to create art that heals—not just decorates.

Whether you’re a survivor seeking restoration, someone looking for expert permanent makeup, a medical office in need of an experienced collaborator, or a fellow artist hungry to learn more—I’m honored you’ve found your way here.

Let’s transform what’s been lost into something beautiful.

Learning and unlearning are both critical parts of growth – can you share a story of a time when you had to unlearn a lesson?

For most of my life, I thought being successful meant always being available. Always saying yes. Always pushing harder. Hustle culture had me convinced that boundaries were for people who didn’t want it bad enough — and I wanted it bad. I wanted to build a business that helped people, made a difference, and provided a stable life for myself and the people I loved.

But what I didn’t realize — or maybe refused to acknowledge — was that my people-pleasing, my overworking, my obsession with proving my worth, came at a cost.

I was saying yes when I should’ve paused. I was overdelivering, undercharging, and blurring every line between “being kind” and “being consumed.” I thought that if I just pushed a little harder, I could carry it all: my growing business, my clients’ trauma, my personal life, my grief, my exhaustion, my obligations. I poured and poured from an empty cup, convincing myself I was fine.

But I wasn’t fine.

Eventually, the pressure crushed me. I landed in the hospital, both physically and emotionally depleted. My nervous system said what I wouldn’t: Enough.

That moment forced me to look at the truth I had been ignoring. I had built a business that was helping others — yes — but I had done it in a way that was harming me. I had mistaken sacrifice for service. I had confused burnout with dedication. And I had allowed fear and people-pleasing to override the boundaries I knew I needed.

So I began unlearning. Slowly. Painfully. Imperfectly.

I started building better systems and communication policies. I began charging fairly for my time, including consultations and specialized services. I stopped texting with clients at all hours. I began saying “not right now” or even “no” — not with guilt, but with self-respect. And I started to hold space for myself the way I had always held it for others.

Here’s what I’ve learned since then:

You can’t serve others well if you are constantly betraying yourself.
You can’t create trauma-informed healing if you’re operating from your own burnout.
And you don’t owe everyone access to you just because you care.

Now, I run my business with heart and with boundaries. I no longer wear burnout as a badge of honor. I don’t aim to be everything to everyone. I aim to be excellent, intentional, and well. That’s how I stay creative. That’s how I stay grounded. That’s how I keep doing this work long-term — not just for my clients, but for myself.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re drowning under the weight of your own kindness… you’re not alone. And it’s not weakness to stop and breathe. It’s wisdom.

Can you share a story from your journey that illustrates your resilience?

My second year in business was supposed to be the one where things finally felt stable. I had just started to find my rhythm — booking consistently, building a client base, and fostering a beautiful creative space that I shared with other artists. Things were starting to work.

And then COVID hit.

Suddenly, everything stopped. My studio was forced to close by the government shutdown, and because of the nature of our work, none of us were allowed to operate legally. No income. No clients. No certainty. Just bills, fear, and silence.

As the owner, I had a choice to make — and I knew from the beginning that I could not and would not ask my studio renters to pay rent when they were legally prohibited from working. It didn’t feel right. These were artists and service providers, just like me, and we were all trying to survive the same storm. I refused to profit off their struggle.

But the rent still had to be paid. The utilities. The insurance. All the invisible costs of keeping a studio running didn’t disappear just because the doors were closed.

So I got creative. I hustled in a different way.

I started making products — skincare, aftercare, art, anything I could produce with my hands — and began doing door-to-door drop-offs. Masked up, hands raw from sanitizer, I drove all over town delivering items myself just to generate something. I wasn’t making huge profits. I wasn’t getting ahead. But I was staying afloat. And more importantly, I was doing it without sinking anyone else in the process.

Every delivery helped me pay just one more bill. Every handmade product was a lifeline. Every day I could keep the lights on without asking my renters for a dime felt like a victory.

Looking back, I don’t even remember how exhausted I was — I just remember being determined not to lose everything I had worked for, and not to let anyone down in the process.

That time taught me a lot about what I’m made of.
It taught me that resilience isn’t always glamorous — sometimes it looks like driving through snow to leave a $15 order on someone’s porch.
It taught me that leadership means making hard decisions for the good of everyone, not just yourself.
And it reminded me that my business isn’t just a business — it’s a community, a commitment, and a responsibility I take seriously.

I survived. We survived. And that chapter, as hard as it was, made me stronger than ever.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.alchemywv.com
• Instagram: @alchemywv.com
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/alchemywv/

Image Credits

Photos by The Oberports