Today we’d like to introduce you to Cody Sexton

Alright, so thank you so much for sharing your story and insight with our readers. To kick things off, can you tell us a bit about how you got started?

I crawled out of the poverty-stricken hills of Appalachia, where the only thing that thrived was misery. That’s where I learned to fight—not just for survival, but for something more. I didn’t have much, but I had grit, and sometimes that’s enough. I dragged myself out of those backwoods, kicking and screaming, straight into the heart of the Windy City. The skyscrapers cut the sky like knives, but they were nothing compared to the mountains I’d already climbed.

Indie publishing and graphic design weren’t part of the plan. Hell, there was no plan. But when you’ve seen enough, you start to figure out how to tell a story that matters. And I told it. I took every ounce of pain, every scar from those Appalachian nights, and turned them into something real—books that bite and graphics that haunt.

Now, I’m not just surviving; I’m dominating. I took the fight to Chicago and won. I’m the one who made it, the one who turned poverty into power, and I’m not slowing down. Not for anyone.

I’m sure it wasn’t obstacle-free, but would you say the journey has been fairly smooth so far?

Smooth? Hell no. The road’s been about as smooth as a drunk walking home in the rain. Every step was a fight. In Appalachia, you grow up knowing the world’s got its boot on your neck, and that feeling doesn’t disappear just because you move to a city with taller buildings. There were nights where I thought I’d end up right back where I started—broke and bitter, chewing on failure like a bad meal.

Money was always tight, connections were nonexistent, and the publishing world didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for some nobody from the hills. But the real struggle? It was fighting through the doubt, the constant gnawing voice telling me to pack it in. When you grow up with nothing, it’s easy to believe you’ll never have anything.

But I kept going. Kept writing. Kept designing. Every rejection, every closed door, just fed the fire. The struggle wasn’t smooth, but it was the only way I knew how to live. You don’t learn to survive in the hills without picking up a few scars. And those scars are what got me here.

Alright, so let’s switch gears a bit and talk business. What should we know about your work?

My work? It’s like breathing—ugly, raw, and necessary. I’m in the business of storytelling, the kind that leaves a mark. I run Anxiety Press, where we don’t just publish books; we unleash them. Sure, I’m known for my design work, but I’m in the biz of publishing. The book covers, the look, the brand—that’s what really sets us apart. I specialize in the kind of writing that doesn’t flinch, that stares into the abyss and spits. Indie publishing is my battlefield, and I’m known for taking risks others wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. If it’s uncomfortable, if it’s real, if it feels like a punch to the gut—that’s where I live.

What am I most proud of? That I took the broken pieces of where I came from and built something that matters. I turned my own scars into stories, into graphics, into art that doesn’t just hang on a wall but grabs you by the throat. I’m proud that I didn’t soften with success, that I stayed true to the dirt and grit that made me.

What sets me apart? I don’t play the game; I rewrite the rules. I’m not interested in what’s trendy or safe. I’m here to push boundaries, to publish the voices that have been silenced, to create art that’s as relentless as the world it reflects. The book covers, the design, the brand—that’s where the magic happens. Others might polish their work until it’s smooth and shiny—I leave the edges sharp. That’s what makes it real. That’s what makes it mine.

How do you think about happiness?

Simplicity, mostly. A quiet night with a bottle of something strong, words on a page that actually mean something, the kind of book that makes you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. Creating—whether it’s a cover design that cuts deep or a story that sticks with you long after you’ve closed the book—makes me happy because it feels like leaving a mark on a world that’s too often indifferent.

And then there’s my wife and son. They’re my anchor in this storm. When the world’s chaos gets too loud, they’re the ones who bring me back to center. Seeing my son grow, knowing he’s got a future that’s a little brighter because of the work I’ve done—that’s the kind of happiness that runs deep. My wife, she’s been there through it all, the highs and lows, the struggle and the victories. She’s the one who reminds me why I do this, why it all matters.

I find happiness in the small victories: a well-turned phrase, a design that captures exactly what I’m trying to say, or a book that gets into someone’s head and rattles around. It’s the act of creation, of turning thoughts into something tangible, something that can outlive me. And, to be honest, there’s a certain satisfaction in proving the world wrong. In taking the hand I was dealt and turning it into something that matters. That makes me happy because it feels like winning against the odds, like I’ve wrestled some meaning out of the chaos. And that’s worth a hell of a lot.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://athinaliceofanxiety.com
• Instagram: @athinsliceofanxiety
• Twitter: @sliceofanxiety

Image Credits

Anxiety Driven Graphics