The Struggle, the Leap, and the Final Destination

Attending the IWSG Conference

It all began with a desire to be a part of the Wader Study Conference in Santiago de Compostela in 2026. Not just to attend a conference, but to find a community. A community of people who have dedicated their lives to studying, mud lovers, the waders that I am so found of.

I was selected and invited for the conference through the International Wader Study Grant. Excitedly I applied for a Visa, but soon came a rejection.

It was an early blow, and for a while, it felt as though the dream had ended before it had even begun. But another dedicated try and this time, the visa was right there in my hands.

Then came the preparations. There were countless things to arrange, plan, and worry about. Even before I realised, the day had arrived. It was time to take the leap.

With a heart full of excitement, anticipation, and fear, I set out on a journey far from home. The beginning was anything but smooth, flights delayed, long unexpected layovers, that’s when I felt like a shorebird on a migratory journey.

Everything was about timing, reaching the right place at the right time, finding the next stop, and hoping nothing would go wrong  along the way. When things inevitably did, I found myself thinking about the waders I study. What happens when the conditions they depend on change? What if habitat loss, disturbance, or human activity disrupts a journey that has been followed for thousands of years?

My own inconveniences were temporary, but this thought stayed with me.

Eventually, after all this I arrived at Santiago de Compostela, Spain. Then began the event I was looking forward to, the International Wader Study Conference.

I remember walking into the Faculty of Biology at the University of Santiago de Compostela, nervous with anticipation. The first person I remember seeing was Dr. Theunis Piersma.

I could hardly believe it.

Here was someone whose name I had encountered countless times in scientific papers, someone whose work I had read from thousands of kilometres away.

That moment made everything feel real.

Over the next four days, unfamiliar names gradually became familiar faces. People I had previously known only through emails and research papers were suddenly sitting across me, talking about their work and their experiences.

I attended the workshop on data and listened to presentations spanning the East Atlantic Flyway for waders, from Senegal to Iceland and many places in between. Every talk seemed to open a door into a different world.

But some of my most memorable moments happened away from the lecture hall. The coffee breaks. The lunch tables. The conversations between sessions.

These were the moments when I could simply walk up to someone and say hello. I spoke with PhD students, researchers, and professors from universities across Europe and beyond. I wanted to talk to everyone I could. I wanted to know what they were working on, how they had arrived where they were, what questions they were asking, and what they hoped to discover next.

I also shared my own experiences, the work I had been doing, the challenges I am facing, and my hopes for the future.

What struck me most was how welcoming everyone was.

There was something incredibly comforting about being surrounded by people who understood. People who understood the fascination for waders, the obsession with their movements, the excitement of a new sighting, and the frustration of trying to piece together their complicated journeys.

For the first time, I felt like I did not need to explain why these birds mattered.

Everyone already knew.

I had an oral presentation and a poster to present.

I invited many  people I met during the first day to come to my talk. To my delight, many of them actually did. It was my first conference presentation, and I was nervous.

But underneath the nerves was an even stronger sense of excitement. I stood there and told the story of my work to a room full of people.

The appreciation and encouragement I received afterwards meant more to me than I can properly put into words. It gave me a much-needed confidence in myself.

My poster brought another set of conversations, questions, and suggestions. Some of the feedback I received may prove invaluable as I take this work forward and, hopefully, towards publication.

Of course, four days could never be enough.

There were talks I missed, people I did not get the chance to speak to, and conversations I wish could have lasted longer.

Yet I left feeling that I had learned an enormous amount.

I was fascinated by the work on Eurasian Oystercatchers, a species I realised I knew surprisingly little about. I was amazed by the questions researchers were asking and by the ways they were finding answers to remarkably complex ecological problems.

I was fascinated to learn how well concealed Ruff nests can be, hidden so effectively that even finding them can become a challenge in itself.

I enjoyed hearing about work from places like Madagascar and Sri Lanka, and I was struck by how much tracked individuals can reveal about the extraordinary journeys birds undertake across continents.

In just four days, I encountered ideas that might otherwise have taken me months to stumble upon alone behind my laptop.

Then came the final day.

The excursion.

It was spectacular.

I saw new species of gulls, explored the Cíes Islands, and stood on one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. The climb to the lighthouse was tough, but reaching the top made every step worthwhile.

I ticked many of my firsts

My first international conference

My first trip outside India

My first poster and oral presentation

Most importantly, my first real experience of being part of this wider community.

I wish I could name everyone who made those four days special, but there were simply too many people.

There is, however, someone I must mention, someone without whom this journey would not have been possible: Delip K. Das. His determination and passion for shorebirds, and his commitment to bringing attention to the work being done in his motherland and neighbouring countries, opened a door for researchers like me to be present in that room, not only to learn, but also to share the work we are doing.

I would also like to thank Dr. Jesús Domínguez, who supported me throughout the visa process by generously providing the supporting documents I needed, and who helped me with the logistics and other conference-related matters.

The conference was so wonderfully organised by everyone at the University of Santiago de Compostela, and I am deeply grateful for all the effort. I would especially like to mention María Vidal, who was incredibly welcoming and helpful throughout the conference.

And to everyone who is part of the Wader Study Group, including Katherine Bowgen and Emma Penning, thank you for extending your help whenever I needed it and for being so kind and welcoming.

Thank you, each and every one of you, for being a part of this journey.

For that, I will always be grateful.

And now I am back home.

Writing this, the whole experience still feels slightly unreal.

Perhaps the best way I can describe it is through waders.

I feel like a small wader that has just completed a long and demanding journey. I went there carrying uncertainty, exhaustion, and questions. I left having refuelled, not just physically, but intellectually and emotionally.

I found new ideas.

I found new people.

I found encouragement.

And, somewhere along the way, I found a little more confidence in my own journey.

I return to the work waiting for me, carrying with me everything Santiago gave me and carrying with me a zugunruhe till the next conference in Czech.

There are still gaps to fill.

Pieces to connect.

Stories waiting to be uncovered.

And perhaps, like the waders themselves, I have simply completed one important journey before the beginning of another.

The destination may still be far.

But for now, I know I am on my way.