025 Pursuing the Paralympics with Graham Rainsby

Today's guest lost most of his vision within a single year to Stargardt's disease, and instead of asking the world to slow down for him, he found ways to keep chasing the goals he'd already set. Graham Rainsby ran competitively through high school and college, where a knee injury ended his running career just as he was hitting his stride. Two and a half years ago he switched to swimming, and he's now training toward a shot at the 2028 Paralympic trials. Stick around for a conversation about self-advocacy and what it means to fall in love with the pursuit instead of the finish line.

The Value Is in the Pursuit

When Graham Rainsby told me he wrote “a Paralympian” in his high school yearbook under “In 10 years, I will be...,” I did the math along with him. His ten-year reunion is next year. He doesn't yet know whether he'll get to say he did it. I found that suspended, unresolved quality more compelling than a tidy origin story, because most of the people I work with are living in exactly that kind of middle: still chasing something without a guarantee they'll catch it.

Graham has Stargardt's disease, a genetic condition that causes progressive central vision loss. He was already in glasses by kindergarten, but the real shift came in sixth grade, when his vision dropped from roughly 20/60 to 20/200 within a single year. He told me candidly that he thinks his age worked in his favor: young enough that he mostly didn't register the day-to-day change, old enough to already have a personality that would carry him through it. He described a strange, half-guilty thought he had as a kid when he was diagnosed — something close to excitement, the way a classmate with a broken arm gets a cast everyone signs. For a while, going blind felt like his version of that cast: the thing that would make him stand out.

That image stuck with me, because it captures something I hear often in my practice and rarely see named so plainly. There's a real tension between wanting your disability to mark you as distinct, and refusing to let it define you — and most people don't resolve that tension once. They renegotiate it constantly, sometimes within the same week, depending on who's in the room. Graham put words to his own version of it late in our conversation, describing himself as “an exceptional person who happens to be blind, not an exceptional blind person.” It's a small distinction with a lot of weight behind it, and I think it's worth sitting with regardless of what trait someone's negotiating: blindness, height, a diagnosis, a divorce. The question underneath is always the same. Is this thing about me, or is it the whole of me?

Graham ran competitively for most of his life before he ever thought about swimming — cross country and track through a small private school in New York City, then at Middlebury College, where he made varsity by his junior year and was voted captain for his senior season, a season COVID then erased entirely. What struck me about that stretch of his story wasn't the athletic achievement so much as the way he described the accommodations that made it possible: large-print handouts, a monocular in the classroom, and, more than any device, learning to listen for the shape of an idea rather than trying to transcribe every word he couldn't fully see. He told me he thinks that skill made him a better student, not a worse one. Constraint, applied deliberately, can build a capacity that wouldn't have developed any other way. I see this constantly in my own clients: the workaround someone builds under pressure often outlasts the pressure itself and becomes a genuine strength.

But Graham was equally honest about what constraint cost him. He said outright that he probably didn't ask for enough support in school, and that he still doesn't ask for enough now. That admission is worth pausing on, because it's the part of this conversation I suspect will land hardest for a lot of listeners. Self-advocacy gets talked about like a skill you acquire once and then have forever. In practice, it's closer to a muscle you have to keep choosing to use, and it's exhausting in a way that's easy to underestimate from the outside — deciding, over and over, whether this particular moment is worth the disclosure, the explanation, the risk of someone's disappointment when you don't match their idea of what blindness looks like. Graham described exactly that experience joining his college cross-country team: he'd sent a thoughtful email ahead of time explaining his diagnosis, only to arrive and sense his new teammates were almost let down that he didn't use a cane. He wasn't blind enough for their expectations, and blind enough for his own reality — a genuinely strange place to stand, and one a lot of people with non-apparent or partial disabilities know well.

A knee injury at the end of his senior year of college ended his running career in a slower, less dramatic way than most origin stories prefer — tendonitis that never really healed, five years and counting. For a while, Graham told me, he felt unmoored. He'd built a large part of his identity around being a runner, and without that structure, he described going through the motions in a way that didn't quite satisfy him. Two and a half years ago, he decided to try swimming instead, specifically with an eye toward Paralympic competition. He set an American record in the 50-meter butterfly in his very first race — a genuine accomplishment, even though he was quick to note, with a self-awareness I appreciated, that it's a less contested event within his classification and therefore a softer record to break. He's now working toward the qualifying time for the 2028 Paralympic trials, currently about two seconds off the mark he needs.

What I keep returning to, though, is something Graham said almost as an aside: that swimming feels strangely unsatisfying compared to running, because he can't see the clock when he finishes. In running, he always knew immediately how he'd done. In swimming, he described standing in the pool after a race with no idea whether he'd won or lost, surrounded by other swimmers who also couldn't tell him — including, in one case, another blind competitor in the next lane. It's a small, almost funny detail, but it's also an honest window into how much of an adaptive athlete's work happens invisibly, after the visible performance is already over.

I asked Graham what he'd tell his seventeen-year-old self, the one who wrote “Paralympian” in a yearbook without knowing if he'd earn it. He said he'd tell him to be a little more upfront about his vision loss when meeting new people, so he'd stop accidentally ghosting new friends he simply hadn't recognized across a dining hall. It's a smaller piece of advice than I expected, and I think that's exactly why it matters. The big lesson — that life isn't fair, and you're still responsible for how you respond to that — he'd already learned by tenth grade, from a mother who told him plainly that things would be harder for him and that this wasn't a reason to stop. What he's still working on is the quieter skill: letting people see him clearly, on his own terms, before the world makes assumptions for him.

Near the end of our conversation, Graham said something that reframed the whole hour for me. He said he genuinely loves the pursuit of the goal, separate from whether he ever reaches it — that waking up to chase something worthwhile is where the meaning actually lives, not in some future finish line. It's a philosophy that happens to mirror his own history on a cross-country course, literally following the runner ahead of him because he couldn't see the finish line or the route himself. He ran the whole race by trusting the process in front of him, one stride at a time, and it turns out that's still how he's approaching a pool, a stopwatch he can't read, and a trial two years out. If you're in the middle of your own pursuit right now — recovering, adjusting, building toward something you can't yet guarantee — I don't think Graham would tell you the outcome is what matters most. I think he'd tell you to keep running toward whoever's ahead of you, and trust that the path will make itself known.

Next
Next

024 Entrepreneurship and Disability with James Warnken