When my father, Bob Harmon, was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2006, he didn't hide from it. He stood in front of 200 golfers in Lake Ashton, FL, and invited them on his journey. With his signature mix of honesty and humor, he told them, “You're in this now. You're going to watch it unfold—the good, the bad—and unless we find a cure, you'll watch how it ends.” That day, a community of friends and strangers became part of something bigger. It was the beginning of our family's Parkinson's journey—and our work as advocates.
At first, we did it all for Bob. Support groups. Clinical trials. Capitol Hill advocacy. Fundraisers that started in the sunshine and ended in laughter and long toasts to research progress. The event “Golf for the Cure” became a hallmark of our calendar, and Team Fox (the grassroots fundraising program of the Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson's Research) became an extended family. Even when the events were exhausting or the updates painful, my father showed up—because showing up meant hope.
But as the years passed, we realized we weren't just doing it for Bob anymore. We were doing it for the thousands of others living with Parkinson's, for the families struggling in silence, for the caregivers navigating new terrain. We were doing it because, like Dad always said, no one should feel alone in this.
Whether you met him on a New York City street or called during Thanksgiving dinner, he made you feel like family. If you had Parkinson's, you had Bob. He became a second father to many. People still tell me about the comfort he gave them, the advice he offered, the simple power of his smile and his words: “You've got this.”
Bob wore many hats in life, including carpenter, surfer, banker, lawyer, and even brewery owner. But his greatest role came in retirement, when he became a tireless advocate and symbol of strength in the Parkinson's community. He didn't just raise money—more than half a million dollars in the end—he raised spirits. He inspired legions of others to join the fight, to speak up, to show up.
In the final chapter of his life, as dementia began to take hold, it was the Parkinson's community—our Team Fox family—who noticed first, who called to check in, and who sent messages filled with love and memories. When he entered hospice, I held space for those who needed to say goodbye through video calls, voicemails, and emails. It was at that time that we had to advocate for him the most—for his dignity and final wishes. And in our last night together, I told him what he had told so many before: “You are not alone.”
After his passing in 2024 at age 75, the outpouring of love was overwhelming. Notes flooded in from all corners: people who'd met him once and those who'd known him for decades. They told us he was their hero, that he made them better, that his legacy would live on in us. And it does.
My dad always worried he'd be forgotten when he was no longer the “$50,000-a-year man” for Team Fox. But I think we can all agree that he needn't have worried. His legacy isn't in the dollars raised (though that's no small feat). It's in the people he inspired, the community he built, and the family he extended to include all those touched by Parkinson's.
Now, as we prepare to bring back Golf for the Cure—the Bob Harmon Memorial Tournament—I carry that legacy with me. In my personal life; my profession, as I have been working full-time for the Michael J. Fox Foundation for a year now, helping others just like us run their fundraisers; and in every conversation I have with someone newly diagnosed or newly afraid. I tell them what Dad told me: “You've got this. And you're not alone.”
Because that's what he wanted most—for people to know they're not alone.
Kate Harmon is a senior community fundraising specialist for the Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson's Research and a former journalist. She lives in York, PA.
