Preston Curtis begins each day in the present. His memory is a shelf with limited space, and much like a shelf, anything not reinforced eventually falls away.

For Curtis, anything older than two weeks dissolves unless rebuilt through repetition, intention, and effort. Within that narrow window, he makes choices about what to hold onto and what to let go, shaping his life through sheer determination and a deliberate pursuit of joy.

Curtis is a first-year student-athlete on the University of Victoria men's rowing team, a Peter B. Gustuvson School of Business student, and a Brentwood College School graduate who has built his identity around resolve and happiness. Resolve, because every day requires a recommitment to the person he wants to be, and happiness, because a coach once told him to be a happy warrior, "a man who smiles at the fight that is going to come."

"When I first heard that, I thought it was just another random analogy to motivate us, until I realized that was the motto that had shaped my entire life," said Curtis.

This is the framework he uses to navigate a world where memory is fragile, and the past is largely inaccessible. Curtis does not dwell on a past he cannot remember, but instead, focuses on the moments directly in front of him that he can shape, enjoy, and carry forward before they fade.

A life rewritten

Twelve years ago, Acute Disseminated Encephalomyelitis (ADEM) abruptly altered the trajectory of Curtis's life. The rare neurological condition causes sudden, widespread inflammation of the brain and spinal cord. In Curtis's case, ADEM, compounded by other health complications, erased nearly everything.

At age six, he lost the ability to walk, speak, and remember. He woke in a hospital surrounded by people who loved him, but whom he could not recognize. The life he had lived and the childhood he had known were gone.

"The disease functioned like a wildfire in a library; it took everything. In a matter of weeks, the wiring that allowed me to navigate the physical world was gone. Leaving me with absolutely nothing I could do," he continued. "I lost the foundational mechanics of being human. I lost the ability to walk and the ability to speak. Even the most basic biological rhythms, like the ability to fall asleep, were stripped away."

He spent years relearning the fundamentals of speech, motor skills and emotional recognition. Some abilities returned, but his memory did not. To this day, his recollection remains a fragmented patchwork of recent moments held together by repetition and intention.

Yet Curtis does not frame this as a tragedy. He rarely speaks about the illness unless asked, and even then, he treats it as context rather than his identity. What frustrates him most is how easily others become fixated on the loss. For him, the loss is something he cannot feel because he cannot remember it. What matters is who he is now, and who he chooses to become each day.

Curtis believes that life is made up of small, fleeting moments, easily discarded unless deliberately held. Because he cannot rely on the past to define him, he treats each moment as an opportunity to build the person he wants to be. Optimism, for him, is not a personality trait but a choice he remakes every morning.

"The moment I give up is the moment I stop being me and the moment I truly lose myself. I may not have my memories, and I may forget who I am, but when I choose to enjoy every single moment, it doesn't matter who I am or who I was. All that matters is who I will become."

Before ADEM, Curtis grew up playing tennis. After relearning how to walk, tennis was one of the first sports he returned to. But as his memory fluctuated, the technical demands of the sport became too frustrating, and he even struggled to remember how to hold a racquet.

That's when he discovered rowing.

Rowing offered something different, requiring rhythm, presence, and trust, rather than long‑term technical proficiency. He could sit down, take the oar, and move with the athletes in front of him, mimicking their movements.

In the boat, Curtis finds rare stretches of quiet. His mind, which is usually busy tracking details and patterns, settles into the crew's rhythm. The consistency of rowing, early-morning practice, and repetition gives him a place to anchor himself.
   

Choosing the future

Each day, Curtis chooses to build memories worth keeping, even if they may not last. And he believes others can make the same choice, not because their circumstances match his, but because the act of choosing is universal.

"A long time ago, I was told I had a 30 per cent chance of surviving, and I did. So, while my history might sometimes disappear with the wind, it doesn't erase my future. If I ever feel like I can't do it for myself, I do it for the ones who didn't get the 30 per cent chance I did."

Curtis may not remember the full arc of his story, but he lives its meaning every day. The impact of that story, he knows, will live in the people who hear it, even if it eventually slips from his own memory.

In a boat full of teammates, he is proof that you never truly know what the person beside you is carrying — only that they showed up anyway.