About Me — Liv Mello
Pun intended.
Just shy of 30 and still getting ID’d, I wonder if I’ll only ever look my age when I no longer want to look my age. I’ve been told that I have an old soul by old people, so they should know. I’ve always felt like a chameleon, changing color to fit my surroundings. I tend to morph into and reflect those around me. My mannerisms, words, even my tone of voice adapts, unintentionally, if I’m around someone for too long.
I guess that’s why I don’t like standing still. It’s hard to know who you really are. Sometimes I feel like a fraud. Sometimes I feel like a combination of all the people I’ve ever met, ever known, ever loved.
Still, I’m driven by a childlike wonder that is all my own, an inkling that life is a simulation, a test, a feature film in which you are the feature. I tried 21 Days of Abundance and failed miserably at meditating but I believe Deepak deeply. Our perception is the ultimate reality.
I grew up fast, as most younger siblings do. I was raised by two frugal creatures of habit and a sister who found no room in our relationship for my naiveté. My mother is an artist and my father is a goldsmith and blues musician. Homebodies. All of us. I spent most of my life in the same town, driving the same roads. I thrived on contentment and knew that being content was better than yearning for something you didn’t have.
Then I turned 27 and decided to test my sporadic bouts of spontaneity at a much greater capacity. I went as far away as I could get. I flew — by myself — to Australia. And, as ironic as it sounds, my plane experienced engine failure and emergency landed on Pago Pago, a beautiful South Pacific island in the middle of nowhere. A single runway. No cell service. Just me and a hundred strangers. But instead of being scared, I felt free.
And I’ve been traveling ever since.
Before I was a traveler, I was a writer. I wrote stories of faries and dworffs before I knew how to spell “fairies” and “dwarfs.” I wrote poetry that I turned into song. I loved the way a new notebook felt between my crooked fingers. I craved the scent of old books.
I wasn’t taught the importance of journaling or that documenting my vulnerability could be beneficial to my mental health. No one explained how much these journals could tell me of my past or teach me in the future. Writing just felt good.
Then, I worked jobs that drained me of my creativity. I dated guys that played video games. I got Instagram.
When I started traveling, I finally had new things to say. And now, I try to make the trivial poetic. I write about vulnerability, self-improvement, relationships, sex, love, and my travels. I recently started two publications here on Medium as a place to showcase these stories. I hope people will follow along and submit their own stories too.
My publications: The Wander Years and Can You Bare It?
I want these platforms to read like we’ve pulled the most intimate pages from hundreds of diaries. Yours included.
If you’re interested in learning more about these publications or becoming a featured writer, leave me a comment below. I can’t wait to meet you.