Time for another Monday Maggie*, where I write my thoughts about something I read or encountered in the last week. 

Last week (okay, really Sunday), I read "A hidden Markov framework for joint identification of animal activity modes and movement phases" (Cisneros-Araujo et al 2026) which is, I will admit, a very niche paper for a blog post. In a nutshell: A lot of movement ecology revolves around GPS data, and we can use the distance and angle between consecutive GPS points (or "fixes") to infer what animals are doing. For example, if an animal isn't moving much between GPS points, and it's noon, and we know it's a nocturnal species, perhaps the animal is asleep. In this paper, Cisneros-Araujo and colleagues detail a new way of modeling movements at two scales simultaneously -- think, delineating whether a whale is resting and it's in a migration phase, vs. a resting whale at the breeding grounds. 

I found the paper really useful for my work, as I try to wrangle the movements of elephant which might be migrating from place to place vs elephant that are just moving around their home ranges. And yet, I also got to thinking about model selection, how ecologists choose which model to use. We can use very simple models (e.g. assuming an animal is always resting at night) or extremely complicated models like the one detailed in this paper. When thinking of the ultimate story we're going to craft in our publications, it can be helpful to think about (1) the audience, (2) the ultimate ecological question, and (3) our own ability to apply methods, before we even start coding. There is a temptation to dump our data into the latest hot model, trying new algorithms or dipping into AI. And there can be good reason for doing so, as long as we remember 1, 2, and 3 and really ask: Is it worth my time and energy to learn and apply a fancy new method?

I recently submitted a manuscript to a remote sensing journal (not naming names) and got a desk rejection that basically read "our journal highlights innovative methods, and your paper doesn't cut it" (I'm paraphrasing but the tone was the same). Oof. I mean, they were right -- my methods aren't innovative from a remote sensing perspective. At first I was really upset, but after some reflection (a 16 hour flight to Johannesburg gives one ample time to ponder) I reaffirmed to myself that this was the whole point. 

The whole point of my paper and methods was to showcase a simple method that researchers worldwide, but especially in southern Africa, can use without needing expert help or advanced knowledge of AI and machine learning. All of the remote sensing data used was publicly available (Sentinel-2, Open Street Maps, etc), all code was written on free software (R and Google Earth Engine), and the method was a small twist on an old approach (binary thresholding). I wanted to write a paper that did a job well, but that was accessible to researchers without my level of computational expertise.

So what am I saying? Sometimes, it's okay to use a tried and true method that's a little boring. Actually, more than sometimes -- most times. Computationally intensive models or AI or machine learning all have their place, and help us to untangle really complicated dynamics and interactions. They're amazing leaps forward in human knowledge, and I applaud authors like Cisneros-Araujo and coauthors for their great work in creating new methods. Heck, I've been on papers like that before (Clark et al 2020)!

I sometimes encounter students or other early career researchers that lament they aren't as good at coding as me, or they aren't using complex methods. That's OKAY. As long as you aren't committing statistical faux pas (e.g., using a linear model for count data, or applying Tukey's HSD when a Kruskal-Wallis test is more appropriate), I think it's much more important that you understand the methods your using and what they mean, than that you use the most fancy, complicated model you can find. You can quote me on that one. :) 

Citations

1. Cisneros-Araujo, P., Gastón, A., Cubero, D. et al. "A hidden Markov framework for joint identification of animal activity modes and movement phases". Landsc Ecol 41, 72 (2026). https://doi.org/10.1007/s10980-026-02304-3
2. Swift, M.E.*, A. Songhurst, G. McCulloch, P. Beytell, R. Naidoo. "Mapping small-scale ephemeral surface water to inform transfrontier conservation planning in southern Africa." Preprint DOI: 10.64898/2026.04.03.715600 
3. J.S. Clark, C.L. Scher, & M. Swift, The emergent interactions that govern biodiversity change, Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 117 (29) 17074-17083, (2020). https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.2003852117 

* It's not Monday, but I bet you future readers didn't even notice. Hah!

I have a fraught relationship with authorship. This stems from several heated conversations when I was a PhD student that I won't get into, but which resulted in high anxiety whenever I contemplate potential author lists or acknowledgements. I've found it helpful to be open and up front about co-authorship early on in the research process, and to lean on frameworks like CRediT to define author roles. Having guide rails has been immensely helpful keeping the panic in check.

All of this would fall apart, of course, if my co-authors weren't human.

The article I've chosen to start this series is Lesley Evans Ogden's Nature Career Feature of Nyikina Warrwa woman and conservationist Anne Poelina, "Why I made a river my co-author" (30 March 2026). In this piece, Ogden speaks with Poelina about her research and her decision to add an unexpected coauthor to her papers: The Martuwarra Fitzroy River, a seasonally-flooding river system in northwestern Australia threatened by fracking, agricultural runoff, and climate change. Martuwarra, RiverOfLife, as it has been registered with ORCID, is a "living Ancestor Being, whose creation stories underpin Kimberley Aboriginal people’s lawful, physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being, and thousands of years of customary practices for Yi-Martuwarra people, the people of the river" (Martuwarra, RiverOfLife et al 2023).
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It's that time of year again where we must confront the truest bias out there -- anti-goldenrod propaganda!

--

Why do plants have showy, beautiful flowers? Why is goldenrod honey so delicious and sought-after this time of year? The answer to both of these questions is simple: Pollinators LOVE nectar. It's full of good sugars that bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds depend on to live.

A beautiful flower is a big advertisement, shouting "HEY, WE'VE GOT NECTAR HERE!", and the shape of that flower can give you clues as to who they're targeting (flowers are the ultimate marketing pros). Long, tube-shaped flowers are probably meant for the long beaks of hummingbirds. Big flowers high in the trees might instead be meant for bats. And goldenrod, with its many small flowers clothed in bees' favorite color---those are meant for the bees.

Not all pollen is created equal. Many plants skip the costly production of showy flowers and nectar, instead producing pollen that is lightweight and meant to be carried far away on the wind. Because they don't rely on direct pollination, wind-pollinated plants have to produce a LOT of pollen to make sure that some of it reaches someone else's flowers or cones. This is the pollen that often causes seasonal allergies.

--

Since goldenrod is insect-pollinated, it would make no sense for goldenrod to create pollen that is blown away in the wind before the bees can do their job. So who is the culprit?

Experts agree, it's likely ragweed*. Ragweed is an unassuming, wind-pollinated plant that blooms at the same time as goldenrod. Ragweed's flowers are all business, no show, and they fly under the radar while letting goldenrod take all the heat.

And, if you're allergic to ragweed, I've got bad news for you: As the climate warms, growing seasons get longer, including the allergy window for ragweed.

So, if you've always blamed goldenrod for your fall allergies -- maybe take a hard look in the mirror and ask yourself: Could it be ragweed?

As dawn yawns and stretches over the African savanna, a line of cars waits impatiently at the wooden gate of Crocodile Bridge Rest Camp. I join the tail end in my tiny white rental car, exhausted from an annual weeklong scientific conference (the Savanna Science Network Meeting in Kruger National Park), but determined to make the most of my trip to South Africa.

​This year, I am on a mission. I'm going to see a rhino.

Read more at the Cornell K. Lisa Yang Center for Wildlife Health Blogs from the Field: 
https://wildlife.cornell.edu/blog/my-rhinoceros-teacher

Every year, as March trips into April, the Ph.D. dissertation defense announcements patter in like spring rains. It is a time of stress, yes, but also joy and celebration as a huge career and life milestone is reached. 

These days, however, my first reaction to a defense announcement is to metaphorically grab the (ex-) student---be they friend, mentee, or stranger---by the shoulders, whispering intently: Do you KNOW yet? Has anyone TOLD you?

No? Well, I will: Get ready for the emptiness. The blues. The "what now?". The "so that's it?" And if you're already feeling these things? You are not alone. 

I've felt this way. Many others have felt (and do feel) this way. We just don't talk about it that much.

*

I've written before about the sudden pulmonary embolism that threw a wrench in my dissertation plans. I ended up defending and passing a few weeks later, but I haven't yet talked about the blues that followed. Of course, almost dying certainly played a role in my emotional state for the rest of 2023, but this was something separate.

I remember going out to a Mediterranean dinner the evening after my dissertation defense, with my mom and brother and a few local friends. What (I thought) should have been a happy and joyous occasion -- I defended! I lived! -- left me instead feeling a bit ... normal. Numb, even. It was like my brain couldn't grasp that I had actually reached the milestone I had worked four years to achieve. This troubled me, but I put the feeling aside, trying to enjoy the moment. 

A few days later, I sat with my mom in my parents' living room, ruminating. "Melancholy" is the word I landed on: a pensive, lingering sadness that dragged at me, but which I couldn't quite pinpoint. My mom, concerned, asked if I wanted to talk to my doctor about adjusting my antidepressants. "No," I replied, "I think this is... okay. Maybe?" It didn't feel like my usual depression -- that familiar feeling of standing at the edge of a metaphorical cliff, ready for a stiff breeze to knock me off the edge. This feeling was more a complicated emptiness. 

The more I turned the feeling over in my mind like a worn stone, the more I realized how familiar it was. It was the feeling of graduating college, not sure if I'd find another home quite like William & Mary. A distinct homesickness, less for a place than for a state of being, being sure that accomplishment should overshadow the uncertainty of change. 

In the face of incredible achievement, I was feeling unmoored. 

*

There's a term for this feeling: the arrival fallacy. Coined by Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar (but as usual, describing a feeling that has existed for a long time). This reaction happens with many milestones and accomplishments, not restricted to academics. Looking back, this sense of loss is completely expected -- how else should you feel when you've been working towards the same goal for quite a while, one which may have taken over your life, and that goal is suddenly met?

I'm reminded of many a cat-and-mouse cartoon, where Wile E. Coyote or Tom chases their quarry off a cliff or up a mountainside, then scrambles in the air when they realize the ground has left them. Our momentum can carry us to our goal, but sometimes our feet leave the ground and we are left without clear ground to trod. 

(My friend Dave often says he feels "like the dog who caught the car". This is also an apt metaphor for this feeling of "now what?")
​
*

I don't have any solutions for this feeling, but even acknowledging its existence is, I think, a step in the right direction. Emotions are not good or bad, but just signals that need paying attention to. The post-dissertation blues is not something that needs us to question "Shouldn't I feel happier?" This feeling is just a sign that our psyches are reeling from a sudden loss of ground. Let the loss exist. Acknowledge its usefulness, and know that it won't last. You'll feel like celebrating once the shock has worn off, I promise.

And remember: Happiness is something carved out one day at a time, through small choices on who we surround ourselves with, how our living situation makes us feel, what we feed ourselves, and how we exercise, create, and self-express. We can't expect it to come just from big events and milestones. Invest in those small happy things.

*

Further reading: 

• You Accomplished Something Great. So Now What? A.C. Shilton, The New York Times. 2019.
• Mastering the Post-Performance Blues. John C. Buckner, Percussive Notes. 2013. This short article focuses on the depression musicians can often feel after a big performance, but I find his advice particularly resonates with my academic experience.

I haven't always been good at taking criticism. I probably never will be. My first response, usually, is a mix of defensiveness and fear. Why don't you like my idea? Why is my writing not good enough? Why do you think what I said was incorrect, or insensitive, or mean? And, of course, at the root of it all: Does this mean I'm not as good a person as I thought? Does this mean they don't want to be friends or collaborate with me anymore? For years, my responses were governed by this deep fear. My PhD advisor even told me once (I asked him to be honest) that I seemed... fragile. Like I might break when faced with pushback. And honestly? He was right.

Over the past few years, I've been working at shifting that fragility. Not getting rid of it, but rather side-stepping. Instead of getting down on myself for feeling defensive or scared, I take a moment to sit in that reaction, and then reflect on the truth:

They didn't have to say anything. They could have read my writing, looked at my proposal, watched my talk and had nothing to say about it.

I have to believe that friends, family, and collaborators that care about me and my work (and here I'm not talking about random strangers) only want me to be better. They want to save me from embarrassing missteps, they want to improve my science, they want to share their true feelings. And, additionally, they feel safe to do so.  If people are correcting me, telling me their real feelings, sharing hard truths -- that means that I've cultivated a good relationship and sent the message that "I can accept this".

My new mantra for criticism is a simple "thank you." Thank you for taking the time to correct me or offer advice, thank you for showing me that I am an approachable friend or collaborator, thank you for caring enough to want me to do better. This mantra has done wonders to course-correct that fear into a place of gratitude. From a friend who gave me a laundry list of problems with a trip pitch, to a mentor who asked me to reword some of my writing on this site, if you've given me criticism in the last year, know that I've been saying a silent thank you (and have tried to remember to verbalize this to you as well).

I'm not sure who or what this post is for! Gratitude for criticism has just been on my mind lately, and I guess as I'm reflecting on all that went on in 2024, I'm very thankful that I have friends and collaborators that want me to be better. We are all learning and growing, and isn't that just the point of life?

Thanks for reading.

As someone from a purely mathematical background, I was late to learn how the growth of statistics came largely from a desire to support the project of eugenics with a logical, rational underpinning. I really want to use my positions and platforms to address this history. Mathematics and statistics are not, and cannot, be divorced from their use to prop up racist, sexist, and classist conclusions convenient to those in power.

This is not relegated to a historical viewpoint, either. I am tired of seeing statistics and biology used as "truth" to push transphobic, queerphobic, and other -phobic agendas. Statistics is not truth, but our best attempt at an approximation. We cannot, as scientists, simply let our research speak for itself. How we present our findings, and how these findings and expression of them might be used for social harm -- these are things that I see mathematicians and statisticians sometimes balk at addressing.

I'm definitely going to spend a long time thinking about how I could use a Secretary role to encourage more discussion of these issues, and how to craft my talk in October to include research ethics and decolonization. A part of me shies away from this work -- I'm just one person, a cis white woman, who has so little experience in things like community science. I haven't set up a research program, most of my work is on the computer, and I am pretty new to ecology as a field. But the key question to be asked is: "Can I do more harm or more good by stepping into these roles?"

I think I can do more good, but this won't be my last time self-reflecting. That's the core piece that separates real work from performative work, I think. Am I checking in, am I reshaping my approach, am I listening to feedback from others? Am I accepting roles (or nominations) because I want to be seen teaching about these topics, or because I want to be part of a conversation, and, well, someone needs to open space for that to happen?

For now, my goal is still to facilitate spaces of discussion and learning, so I'll continue to do so.

***

* If you're here because of that announcement, hello and welcome! You can read more about my viewpoints at this landing page.

It's often said that neuroscience and psychology are the expression of a brain studying itself. I fancy, then, that the field of ecology takes this self-study to fantastic scales -- from community, to landscape, to biosphere, as it were. Every scientist surely thinks of their field as the most intricate and fundamental, and yet I can't help but wonder: How lucky am I, to be engaged in a science that creates, in me, a small mirror for the Earth herself? To be a piece of the whole dedicated to the greatest act of self-reflection?

+ + +

When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut. My parents love to tell how, without fail, toddler Maggie would drop everything to stare at the opening credits of Star Trek: The Next Generation. My desire to go to space was aided by a natural proclivity for mathematics, and an eventual degree in the subject.

On applying to graduate schools, I wanted to join a field that used the mathematics I loved, rather than studying it directly. Naturally, I first gravitated towards planetary sciences and astrobiology. I thought to finally approach the skies. I spent workdays meant for programming FDA new drug applicant interfaces instead researching astrobiology programs.

But as I took my lunch breaks out by the honey locusts and lilypad-filled ponds near my office, I began to realize that I didn't want to spend all of my life behind a computer screen--just most of it. I didn't want to go to space; what I wanted was to be in space, to gain the vantage with which so few have been honored: To observe our home, in full. I wanted to experience Earthrise. I wanted to understand how this extraordinarily unlikely place came to be, and how it persists.  The only planet I wanted to study was our own.

And so, ecology.

I struggled to call myself an ecologist for a long time. I spent years feeling like an interposing mathematician who brought her computational skills to the real ecologists. It wasn't until I went to South Africa and engaged with savanna ecology directly that I realized I had always thought like an ecologist. I just needed time to build up a language and literature background to feel a part of ecological conversations.

As I look back on my childhood spent mucking around in the woods, foraging raspberries and spicebush, I wonder how I could have thought I'd be doing anything else.

+ + +

Is the production of conservationists and environmentalists, then, an act of planetary self-preservation? What of the myriad Indigenous ways of relating to our biotic and abiotic siblings, of connecting to the Earth with mutual respect? These ways of knowing go beyond study; they are action, intention. I like the term caretaker. Or perhaps, caregiver. Something in between the two -- someone who knows and sees, but also takes action to protect and nurture.

I don't know what exactly I'm getting at here. I suppose, in my life, I hope to be a caretaker/giver, a co-conspirator and conservationist. A piece of the Earth taking care of herself.

It's been a year. 

About a year since, on the front steps of an autumnal New Haven porch, my dad called. Your mother has cancer, she has cancer, and I need you here. Come home. Six hours into a ten hour drive, I turned around and headed back, fielding tearful calls from my younger siblings. I only made it to the Bronx. My sweet cousin Elizabeth wrapped me in her arms as I sobbed all night, and the next day she drove me all the way to Virginia. Staring blankly into the unknown of a cancer diagnosis, I couldn't stop thinking, How many weeks do we have left?

It's been over a year, and she's still here. 

It's also been about a year since I made one of the scariest decisions of my professional life. In the winter of my fourth year in graduate school, I was awarded my dream postdoctoral fellowship to study elephants up at Cornell. How could I refuse? But I was nowhere near ready to defend my dissertation, and I knew that saying yes would mean nine grueling months of work that should have spanned the next eighteen. I hadn't planned for my mom to have stage 4 lung cancer, and I hadn't planned to actually get the fellowship, but here we were. I talked it over with friends and family, then decided I couldn't say no. Despite the extreme difficulty to get where I am today, I'm so glad I accepted.

2023 has been quite a year: A year of stress, heartache, and tears -- but also extreme love, community, friendship, and hope. My mother might have died. I almost did as well. But we haven't yet. We are thriving. Blood thinners and targeted immunotherapy are wonderful things. I know this won't last forever, but I often think about where I was last year. We've had about sixty weeks, and I'm hoping for at least sixty more.

I've had a year to be thankful to all the friends and family, professionals and admin, kind strangers and mentors who helped me get through the most emotionally strained 12 months of my life. My perspective on life has changed drastically. I know now how precious time is, and I don't intend to waste any that remains. Friends, family, nature--these are the things I want to surround myself with, to pour my energy into. Everything else is just stealing time.

Life is short, you only live once, carpe diem.

2023, you've taught me a lot, but you've also been an absolute bitch. Here's hoping 2024 is a little gentler. 

- 

Update 19 Dec: Two hours after posting this, I tested positive for covid. 2023 just won't let up, will it?