Embracing the unexpected
My journey from undergraduate to synthetic chemist.
Picture this: it is the last month of high school. University acceptance and rejection letters have been sent out, and you’re weighing your options, deciding which offers to accept and which ones to turn down. Much like many of you who may be reading this, I embarked on a journey to start a life sciences degree at the University of Toronto Mississauga (UTM), not knowing what lay ahead.
In 2016, I began my undergraduate classes at UTM as a life sciences student. Growing up and watching my dad, an infectious disease physician, I was in awe of his rationale, his ability to dissect scientific problems, and his methodical way of thinking. He also seemed to have infinite knowledge about practically everything, leading me to think, “If I want to be the same, then I must become a physician too.” Little did I know, my admiration had everything to do with my dad and his character, and little to do with his profession.
Truthfully, coming out of high school, I wanted to be a physicist or mathematician but remained steadfast on medical school. I didn’t just love numbers; I loved the logic behind the math. In my first year, I sampled all the sciences: biology, chemistry, physics, and calculus. As I progressed, I discovered a love for chemistry (thanks to the incredible Professor Judith Poe) and math, which felt like a universal language (thanks to the inspiring Professor Tyler Holden). This realization convinced me to declare a double major in math and chemistry.
Later on, when I studied mathematical proofs, I fell in love with the universal language of math even more. It wasn’t simply the logic; it was how math appeared in every other natural science. From the behaviour of planets and stars to atoms and subatomic particles, math was everywhere. Heck, it even showed up in business, politics, economics, and practically every aspect of our lives. Learning math teaches you to view the world differently. You analyze claims and can easily delineate between conjecture and real proofs. It felt like a superpower!
That is, until I realized math is somewhat limited by the technologies of our time. While some things can be proven mathematically on paper, we can’t always verify them in the physical world. On top of that, I wasn’t excelling in my second-year chemistry classes as I had hoped. I planned to drop chemistry to a minor and focus on math, where I was performing better—but the future felt uncertain.
Then, in an eleventh-hour decision, everything changed when I was accepted into Patrick Gunning’s lab, led by one of the world’s most renowned medicinal chemists. I upgraded my chemistry minor to a specialist. Why, you ask? In the Gunning lab, I witnessed how chemistry could change lives. Chemistry was no longer just the colourful reactions driven by complex molecular mechanisms that I liked drawing in second-year organic chemistry class. It came to life as a therapeutic tool. The molecules in my flask weren’t just the product of reactants coming together; they represented hope. They are someone’s prayers.
I learned medicinal chemistry: how to translate organic reactions into molecules, and how these molecules could become powerful medicines to impact real lives. I discovered the beauty of chemistry hidden behind tests and assignments, a perspective rarely granted to undergraduates. Soon after, I decided to continue my work with Patrick Gunning and pursue a PhD.
Starting in research to better prepare myself for a PhD applications was not the easiest transition. It took me a very long time to do chemistry properly and know what the right questions to ask were. Even tasks like combing papers for valuable information felt daunting at some points. My journey was full of constant self-doubt and imposter syndrome creeping in: “Am I doing this right? Am I even good enough to be here?“. Surely enough, even as I near the end of my PhD, it still creeps in occasionally. So naturally, after four months of applying and waiting with no response, I started to gradually push the panic button.
However, one day, I randomly received an email during an analytical chemistry class: “Congratulations, we are pleased to offer you admission to the Doctor of Philosophy – Chemistry program.” Aside from smiling like an idiot for the entire class and embarrassing myself, I ran up to my professor after class, showed her the email and exclaimed, “I’M GONNA BE A DOCTOR!!!” to which she responded, “Haha, congratulations… I guess?”
Amid the COVID pandemic and the chaos of classes abruptly turning online, the twinkle in my eye that “the best is yet to come” was resurrected. I started working on projects I was passionate about, tackling diseases with personal connections to me. I wanted to explore all kinds of chemistries and drug modalities. I was more driven than ever.
Gradually, I learned how to become a drug designer and developer. Imagine designing a molecule that short-circuits an entire biochemical pathway—a cascade of biological events leading to disease. Imagine creating a molecule (or a collection of atoms in just the right arrangement) precisely tailored to disrupt the chemical undulations of a target protein. As physician James Bradner (one of the greatest physician scientists to ever walk the earth) so eloquently put it, “It’s like taking out a hurricane by targeting a raindrop.”
During grad school, the ways I could utilize my knowledge and skills expanded exponentially. Reading papers, mentoring a mini-army of bright undergrads (who are all now well on their way to becoming doctors themselves), doing internships abroad, attending conferences, and meeting real-life science superheroes made grad school feel like a dream. Now that it’s drawing to a close, it feels like it was too short-lived.
This journey wasn’t always easy. It was full of setbacks, hard times, and obstacles, but also an insane amount of luck driven by curiosity. If there’s one takeaway from my experience, it’s this: no matter what path you envision for yourself, life has a way of changing for the better in ways you can’t foresee. It’s almost the only constant in life—destiny takes its course.
Who knew I’d be working on therapies with the potential to impact millions of patients? Who knew any of this would happen over 8.5 years after I pressed the “accept offer” button? Certainly not 17-year-old me. There was always a path for me that I didn’t plan but was meant to walk. If I could time travel, I’d go back and tell my younger self: “You’re in for one heck of a journey. Make sure you enjoy every bit of it.” So, if you’re reading this with any shred of doubt or uncertainty about the future, you should be telling yourself the same thing, because rest assured… the best is yet to come!
