M. Reza Ghadiri, the Darlene V. Shiley Chair in Chemistry at Scripps Research, has spent decades asking how life’s complexity can arise from basic chemical building blocks. But behind the elegant theories and years of pioneering work is a story that begins much earlier—inside a childhood bedroom filled with improvised experiments, walls stained with chemicals and the unmistakable smell of sulfur. In a conversation with Scripps Research Magazine, Ghadiri reflects on the formative moments that set him on his scientific path and influenced his unwavering commitment to making the impossible a reality.

Was there an early experience that sparked your fascination with science?

I’ve always been interested in how things work; that curiosity is just part of who I am. When I was about 10 or 11, growing up in Iran, I came across a translated copy of one of Charles Darwin’s books. I started reading it and realized how deeply connected life is—how everything is related through evolution. Around the same age, I also became fascinated by chemistry and physics. I bought my first chemistry book at a street sale and started doing experiments in my room. That was really the beginning.

What kinds of experiments were you conducting at home?

I did many things that, in retrospect, probably weren’t the safest. I remember conducting experiments on my desk, and a couple of times they actually blew up. My mom didn’t know exactly what I was doing, but she certainly knew something was going on when she saw chemicals splashed onto the wall. After the second time, my parents didn’t even bother repainting. The wall next to my desk became this abstract collection of colors, a kind of accidental artwork. I’m sure my mom wasn’t pleased, but both my parents generally let me pursue what I cared about—within reasonable boundaries.

When did you realize that chemistry could be creative and not just about memorizing formulas?

I’m lucky that math, chemistry and physics were always intuitive to me. I didn’t have to memorize formulas; they just made sense. When I was about 13, I independently came up with an experiment that I later discovered had already been done. But at the time, it felt like a revelation.

I was a quiet, geeky kid who liked to fiddle around and try things. Once, I needed sulfuric acid for an experiment. My mom was understandably terrified of sulfuric acid because it can burn your skin. She wouldn’t allow me to get any, so I decided to make it myself. I knew the industrial method wasn’t possible at home, so I figured out another route: I took a thimble from my mom’s sewing kit, filled it up with sulfur, ignited it, and used it to react with a flask of hydrogen peroxide. It worked like a charm, and I got dilute sulfuric acid. The downside was the smell—the entire house reeked. Think rotten eggs times 10,000. Nothing helped with the stench, not even with the windows open. So even though the experiment was a success, it wasn’t well received by my family. That was creative childhood science for me.

Later on, what drew you to studying how simple chemical systems organize into complex ones?

I trained as a synthetic organic chemist, learning how to build molecules. But what really transformed my thinking was becoming deeply interested in how molecules of life operate. Whether they’re large like proteins or small like metabolites, molecules interact, and those interactions often aren’t linear. Something affects something else, which loops back and changes the original interaction. That kind of feedback leads to self-organization, where complex behavior emerges without any central control. When many simple interactions spread through a system, you get what we call emergent properties: behaviors that are far greater than the sum of their parts.

Your brain is a perfect example. It’s just molecules interacting, but what emerges is thought, memory and creativity. An ant colony is another example: No single ant is in charge, yet collectively they behave as if there’s a plan. Even human society works this way. I don’t know how to build the computer that I use every day, but thousands of people—even in some ways unknown to each other—made it possible. The idea that simple components can organize into complex and remarkable systems has fascinated me throughout my career.

Is there an idea that once seemed impossible but now feels within reach?

Most of the projects I’ve worked on started that way. When my lab first attempted self-replication—creating peptides that could make copies of themselves—many scientists thought it was impossible. Peptides are short chains of amino acids, the basic building blocks that make up proteins, and it was widely believed that they were too simple to reproduce on their own. I once received a grant review that said there was absolutely no way peptides could self-replicate. But we proved otherwise. This work helped demonstrate what’s chemically feasible when thinking about how life might have originated—not verifying exactly what happened, but showing what’s viable under plausible conditions.

If you can see light at the end of the tunnel, even faintly, it’s usually possible. The challenge is figuring out the path. In many cases, what made these ideas seem far-fetched wasn’t a violation of physical laws, but a lack of tools or imagination. Early on, things like self-replicating molecules, enzymes designed to carry out specific chemical tasks, and drugs meant to trigger chemical reactions sounded unrealistic because there was no clear roadmap for how to develop them. But impossibility often dissolves once you can define the problem in smaller, solvable pieces.

I’ve learned that progress rarely comes from a single discovery; it comes from layering ideas, methods and insights over time, often in ways you couldn’t have predicted at the outset. What matters most is being able to see a path forward, even if most of that path hasn’t yet been built.

Why is mentorship central to how you define impact?

Scientific results matter, of course, but the most meaningful aspect of my career has been mentoring the next generation of researchers. I’ve had the privilege of working with brilliant young scientists, and my greatest success is helping them realize their full potential.

I always encourage students to work on problems that feel uncomfortable. Doing things that you already know how to do eventually becomes boring, and the most thought-provoking questions elicit high-risk, high-reward ideas. But sometimes, you need to think beyond what you believe is possible. For example, I once taught a course with no exams. Everyone got an A if they showed up and participated. The only requirement was a theoretical group project: propose a crazy idea that could plausibly occur on Earth and explain how it might work. Assignments ranged from designing artificial life to creating a tree that could convert sunlight into electricity. The concepts were amazing. That kind of freedom allows people to stretch the limits of imagination.

Outside the lab, what helps you reset?

Art is incredibly important to me. Film, music, painting, sculpture, writing—they’re the ultimate expressions of human intelligence. They remind you that creativity isn’t limited to science. And nature photography has been a passion of mine throughout the years. Personally, it’s about being present long enough to notice light, patterns and moments that will never appear again in quite the same way. You’re responding to what’s already there rather than trying to engineer a result. This mental shift is valuable, as it takes your mind off everything else. Art helps recalibrate my thinking so I can return to work with a fresh perspective.

What ultimately keeps you excited about science?

It’s a remarkable time to be a researcher. The pace of technological improvement over the past few decades has been astonishing, and we’re living through a period of extraordinary scientific acceleration. Being able to witness—and occasionally contribute to—that momentum is a great motivator.

But above all, it’s the people. Seeing former students and collaborators take ideas in directions I never anticipated is immensely rewarding. The longer I’ve been a scientist, the more my excitement has shifted from individual findings to collective progress. In that sense, science becomes less about any single result and more about being part of an ongoing, evolving conversation. Individually, what any one of us can do is limited, but together we can reach the moon.