This post marks the start of a series reflecting on 15 years of the Noel Research Group. Looking back, I realized that the path into and through academia is rarely as straightforward as it may seem from the outside.

I hope that by sharing my experiences, both the good and the more challenging moments, these reflections can be of some use to younger academics finding their own way.

Tim Noel, 21 April 2026

Origins of the ambition

I was born into a working-class family in 1982. My father worked in construction, my mother made curtains. There were no academics anywhere in our family. However, my dad always recognized the importance of school: “Make sure you do well at math, it is important! You do not want to wear dirty pants for a job,” referring to his concrete- and mud-stained trousers that he wore daily on construction sites.

Like any kid, I really looked up to my dad. He is a very hard worker, and as a consequence we never had to worry about money.

School was important, and my parents pushed me to do well. Not to be exceptional, but simply to make sure I could get a decent job later, a job without “dirty pants.” While I generally did well at school, around the 3rd–4th year of high school my grades started to falter. I still attribute that to hormones. Puberty craziness, I guess.

Toward the end of my 4th year in high school, when I was about 16, I became eligible to work during the summer. My father said, “Come and work with us. You’ll earn a good salary in construction, but be aware, it’s going to be tough.”
Sure, why not, I thought. How bad could it be? I had already played soccer for ten years and had fairly good endurance. But oh boy, it was much harder than I expected.

Bringing bricks, shoveling sand and cement to make mortar, wheelbarrowing it to the masons – backbreaking labor, day in, day out. For a while, construction work is almost fun. You’re outside, in the sun, and it feels like you’re a tough guy. But wait until it rains and you have to slush through the mud with a wheelbarrow (Figure 1). Or until the mornings get colder and your hands are so numb you can barely move them, while still having to deliver bricks fast enough to keep up with the pace of these weathered masons.

I was completely exhausted after every day, falling asleep in the car on the drive home. Complaining, taking an extra break, doing a bit less than the others… forget about it. There was no mercy. My dad’s colleagues would say, “We had to do this at your age, so why wouldn’t you?” They had a point. So I never gave up, never asked for mercy, and toughened up.

But something did click in my mind: this is not the job I want to do for my entire career.

The message, whether or not my dad had planned it that way, was delivered. I needed to work harder at school, and I did. My grades went up dramatically, and I became first of the class in the years that followed. All of a sudden, teachers started recognizing me. Only a year earlier, my computer science teacher had asked me at the end of the year, “What is your name again?” I was shocked that after a full year he still didn’t know me. Am I really that invisible? I wondered.

Once my grades improved, teachers did start to pay attention. I became someone worthy of their attention. Classmates began asking me questions and for clarification on the material. All of this nudged me to work even harder. A pattern became clear: school could be a game changer for me. I could become somebody by getting good grades, and I could evade the fate of “dirty pants.”

I went back every summer to work with my dad. And the message remained crystal clear: working hard at school is peanuts compared to working outside on construction sites.

University: an unexpected fit

At the end of high school, it was around 2000, teachers were pushing me to dream big. Still, I have to admit that I was scared of university. Nobody in my family had ever gone before me, and I had no real idea what to expect. That I would one day end up in academia was completely unimaginable to me at that point. A PhD? I hadn’t even heard the term when I was 18.

What I did have was a clear interest in science. I generally obtained good grades in scientific subjects, much more easily than in language classes. I considered studying physics, chemistry, engineering, or even psychology. In the end, I chose engineering because it kept the bachelor years very broad, with a wide range of courses. In a way, it allowed me to postpone making a final decision about specialization.

University life turned out to be a perfect match. I also loved the way we were assessed: two major exam periods, one in January and one in May/June. I studied consistently during the year, but there were no daily tests like in high school. So, in other words, far less stress. By the time the exams arrived, I felt prepared and passed them without much difficulty.

At some point, however, I had to refine my choice and select a major. The problem was that I liked almost everything: physics, chemistry, electricity, mechanical engineering. Even in high school, I had enjoyed all the science classes. One of my chemistry teachers once told me that I seemed quite good at organic chemistry. “It’s not an easy subject,” he said, “and maybe you should do something with that talent.” That small piece of encouragement stayed with me.

In the end, I chose Industrial Chemical Engineering.

It was during the first year of my master’s degree that I became familiar with the term PhD. People who are paid to do research. That sounded incredibly exciting. I started talking to my professors, and they encouraged me to consider it. But then came the next question: on what topic?

Once again, I gravitated toward organic chemistry, following the advice of my old high school teacher. I liked the idea of building molecules and tailoring them for specific applications. Still, it was not a straightforward choice for a chemical engineer, especially one who had essentially missed all the key organic chemistry courses.

Finding a PhD Position the Hard Way

While obtaining my MSc in Industrial Chemical Engineering went relatively smoothly, starting a PhD in synthetic organic chemistry did not.

Because I did not have the right background, the University of Ghent required me to complete a predoctoral year. This involved six courses, roughly equivalent to half a year’s worth of credits. One or two subjects were interesting, but overall I found the year rather useless, with little practical value. On top of that, there was simply too much unstructured time, and I started doubting myself a lot.

Importantly, this predoctoral year did not guarantee a PhD position. In other words, it was entirely possible that the whole year would turn out to be a waste of time.

Prof. Johan Van der Eycken, whose lab I had selected as a potential host for my PhD, kindly supported me and allowed me to do research in his group. And yes, I still loved the experiments. But the insecurity about whether I would actually get a PhD position started to weigh on me more and more.

In Belgium, most PhD positions require applying for competitive grant schemes, such as the FWO. And peers, as peers can be, are sometimes not particularly kind. Comments like: “Well, you had excellent grades in engineering, but now you’re doing synthetic organic chemistry. I guess they’ll prioritize chemistry MSc students.”
Was I, indeed, fucked?

Looking back, this was probably one of the hardest periods of my career. I had the strong feeling that I had completely messed things up. Was choosing engineering the wrong decision after all?

When I submitted my proposal to the FWO, the result confirmed my fears: I did not get the funding. Johan then said, “There is a backup plan. Let’s try BOF funding,” an internal, institutional funding scheme. We applied, and luckily for me, it worked.

The funding was approved, and I could finally start my PhD in Prof. Van der Eycken’s team. A lot of the dark thoughts dissipated. The insecurity slowly made space for exuberance.

The PhD – not a smooth race either

In September 2005, I finally started my PhD. Like many PhD students, I was naively excited and ready to make ‘big’ discoveries. The project focused on synthesizing new chiral ligands for transition-metal catalysis. Prof. Van der Eycken gave us complete freedom to shape the research as we saw fit.

Behind my back, however, I did sense some skepticism from fellow PhD students. “What is an engineer doing in a chemistry environment? Engineers don’t know anything about synthetic work.” Even when I only heard this second-hand, it bothered me. It made me want to work harder and prove myself. I should add that this is not unique to academia, there are naysayers everywhere in life. The challenge is learning not to let them define you.

I started working on chiral dienes, a new ligand class pioneered by the Hayashi group (University of Kyoto) and the Carreira group (ETH Zurich). To stay focused, I set myself small, concrete goals: develop a viable synthesis for my first ligands within three months and test them in benchmark reactions.

Everything went according to plan, until it didn’t.

A paper from the Hayashi group appeared, describing exactly the same synthesis. I had just been scooped on my very first project. Panic set in. I went to Prof. Van der Eycken, who advised me to wrap up the work as quickly as possible so we could submit as well. I wrote the manuscript, and the paper was eventually published.

It was my first academic paper. My name was there, in print. That may sound a bit over the top, and perhaps it was, but it gave me one of the best feelings I have ever had. Publishing made me feel like I was no longer just a number. I had contributed something tangible, something that other scientists would read and build on. It felt great.

Still, being scooped was not a great experience. It’s not great for morale, it causes stress and it’s not great for the impact factor of the journal you had in mind. Many people in academia will experience being scooped at least once in their career. In a later post, I’ll return to this topic and discuss how my current group tries to reduce the constant fear of being second in scientific projects. (Spoiler: there are things you can do.)

I learned an important lesson and moved on quickly. One strategy to reduce the risk of being scooped again was to work on a completely new class of ligands: chiral imidates. That direction worked well, and I was able to publish several papers during my PhD.

Publishing, however, was not the norm in our group at the time. Most colleagues published little or not at all during their PhD. This sometimes led to awkward situations and unintended tension. I am aware that I can come across as highly ambitious, and that probably shows. In an environment with different expectations, this occasionally made me feel quite lonely, even though I genuinely loved the work.

During my PhD defense, I had a fantastic time, sparring ideas and scientific concepts for two hours with high-level professors (Figure 2). My family, friends, and colleagues were there, and it was one of the proudest moments of my life. They could see that I was in my element.

So despite the doubts, the competition, and the occasional loneliness, the PhD years were formative in the best possible way. I learned a great deal about myself and about what truly drove me, and they confirmed that I wanted to stay in academia.

The Postdoc – the preamble

With my PhD drawing to a close and my decision to stay in academia becoming clear, I started scanning postdoc options and doing interviews about a year before finishing. I thought I had secured a position; a handshake deal that, at the time, felt reassuring.

As it turned out, I hadn’t.

This is a cautionary tale for every young academic: as long as you do not have a contract, you have nothing. Indeed, about one month before the end of my PhD, I contacted the group I had been in touch with, only to find out -much to my dismay- that there was no money to finance my stay after all.

I panicked. I even offered to work for free. That, of course, is not really possible in a chemistry lab, given the safety regulations. So I had to look elsewhere. But this was 2009, and the financial crisis was hitting Europe hard. There were not many options.

I sent out many applications across Europe. My goal was to stay close to home so I could go back on weekends to see my wife, we had only been married for a year… Despite dozens of emails, many went unanswered. Those who did reply often suggested that I apply for personal fellowships instead. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking, and I was about to be out of a job. Why did academia always feel so stressful?

At some point, I started sending applications to the United States. If I was serious about an academic career, I realized I would have to make sacrifices, even if that meant going overseas and being separated from my family for long stretches of time. So I told myself: “if I’m going that far, I should aim for the very best.” And if it didn’t work out, at least I would know I had tried.

I sent out four applications. Soon after, I received a response: from Prof. Stephen L. Buchwald at MIT. My first reaction was simply: wow. Working with him would be a dream. I made sure to collect as many letters of support as I could: five, from people with very different perspectives who knew me well. And then, sometime in January 2010, I got the offer.

I was going to MIT. My god.

My wife was supportive from the very beginning, but it was not always easy to explain this decision to other relatives and friends. Going that far away for “just a job” did not seem self-evident to everyone. Belgians, after all, tend to be quite around-the-tower people. When I tried to explain it to my parents, I used a football analogy. I told my dad: “if I were playing for a local team and had the chance to play in the Champions League, would you take it?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Well,” I replied, “MIT is like Barcelona or Real Madrid. And I’m not going to sit on the bench, I’m going there with the intention to play.”

He immediately understood. And I had their blessing.

The Postdoc – Finding My Place

On March 30, I landed in the USA. The day after, I went to the lab for the first time. When I exited the T at Kendall Square, I felt butterflies in my stomach. Even though I am not particularly religious, I remember touching the ground at MIT and saying to myself: “God, please help me to be successful here.”

Steve was great, and the team was extremely welcoming. I felt supported from day one. I hate to admit it, but I had expected something else. High-performing places often have a reputation for being tough, competitive, and highly protective of individual projects. What I encountered was the opposite. People were open, friendly, and incredibly generous with their time and ideas.

One example has always stayed with me. I asked a colleague about a scientific problem I was facing. On the surface, it seemed like a simple question, and I felt a bit ashamed even asking it. He answered honestly: “I have no idea either. It seems like something we should know, but I’m not sure either.”

That moment was surprisingly powerful. People who dared to admit that they didn’t know created an atmosphere in which I could be myself. If I made a mistake, so be it. I never felt judged. It felt like home.

In such an environment, I felt I could get the best out of myself. And I worked hard, not out of fear, but out of motivation. I knew that every paper with MIT as an affiliation on my CV would be noticed and would improve my chances at the next stage: finding a tenure-track position.

The topic assigned to me was flow chemistry: translating some of the well-known Buchwald chemistry into continuous-flow reactors. The project was part of the MIT–Novartis Center for Continuous Manufacturing and exposed me to a wide range of people: engineers, chemists, and scientists from industry.

Very quickly, something clicked. To make real progress, I needed both my engineering background from my MSc and my training in synthetic organic chemistry from my PhD. What had initially felt like a liability during my PhD now became an asset that set me apart. I could approach problems from both perspectives, which allowed me to resolve lingering issues more efficiently and find the right synergies. I felt completely at ease with the project and was able to make an impact quickly, with a first paper drafted within the first six months.

With every project I tackled, my confidence grew. Again, my mixed background gave me an edge that I did not see as clearly before. What once seemed like a weakness had turned into a unique strength, almost a superpower. It didn’t take long before I realized that, if I were lucky enough to obtain a position, this would likely become the core theme of my independent research career.

Another important aspect of MIT was the peer group (Figure 3). Many colleagues shared the ambition of pursuing an academic career, which led to countless informal discussions about ideas, strategies, and future plans. There were even dedicated courses on how to start an academic career: how to prepare grant proposals (something I hadn’t even realized was necessary at that stage), how to interview for faculty positions, and how to structure job talks and seminars.

Looking back, this exposure was invaluable. I am very aware that being able to experience all of this was a privilege. Had that first postdoc option (the handshake deal) actually gone through, I might never have ended up at MIT. And would I then have stumbled upon flow chemistry? Who knows. What I do know is that I grabbed the MIT opportunity with both hands and enjoyed every second of my postdoc. Many of the choices I later made as an independent PI trace back directly to that period…

The next episode – looking for a way into the tenure track

After about a year into my postdoc, I started seriously considering the next step in my academic career: how to secure a faculty position. In Belgium, the classical route is to return as a local postdoc, so I applied for FWO funding.

A few months later, the verdict came in. I had narrowly missed the cut. I had nothing.

It was a huge blow. I didn’t understand why I hadn’t gotten it, and my confidence dropped to rock bottom.

One day, Steve passed by my desk and asked what had happened. I told him the story. He looked at me and said, “Why are you applying for another postdoc? I actually think you’re ready to apply for academic positions.”

That took me completely by surprise. I asked him if he was serious. He was.

“Tim,” he said, “you’re doing really well here. You don’t need to go. Stay as long as you need to find the academic position you want. I think you’re fantastic in flow chemistry.”

I had tears in my eyes. That moment, that boost of confidence, has stayed with me ever since.

So I pivoted. I started applying directly for tenure-track positions. I was invited for two interviews, one at TU Eindhoven and one at Utrecht University, both in September 2011.

I spent the months leading up to the interviews preparing meticulously. I wrote a coherent research proposal focused on photocatalysis in flow. Photocatalysis was emerging as a hot topic in synthetic organic chemistry, and I believed strongly that it needed better technology. Flow chemistry, I felt, could make a real impact. And because relatively few applicants had a background in flow chemistry, I thought I might have a competitive edge.

The interviews went remarkably well. I didn’t have to look further. I received two offers. At that stage of my career, luck was clearly on my side. My independent academic career could begin … but that story I’ll save for another post. Stay tuned.

Stepping back (with hindsight)

It’s worth pausing here.

Only with hindsight did I fully realize how contingent this path was. I had originally wanted to do a postdoc in enantioselective catalysis, but that plan failed. The reviewers of that grant wrote: “You already have experience in this field. Why do it again?” At the time, I found that reasoning confusing and frustrating.

Now, I see their point.

Repeating what you already know during a postdoc is rarely the best strategy. Expanding your horizons, geographically, intellectually and technically, matters. Because that first plan failed, I had to apply again. That detour brought me to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, a place I initially thought was completely out of my league. There, I encountered flow chemistry, a topic where my combined background in engineering and chemistry suddenly became a strength rather than a liability.

When photocatalysis began to take off in synthetic organic chemistry, the pieces fell into place. The dots connected. That became the topic I started my independent career with. And, fifteen years later, it is still a core theme in my group.

Tim Noël
Amsterdam, April 2026