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The late, great Robin Williams once beautifully said, “I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy. Because they know what it feels like to feel absolutely worthless and they don’t want anybody else to feel like that.”

One night at a comedy club in Los Angeles, a new, nervous stand-up comic was called to the stage by the emcee. In one hand, she casually had a beer that she propped up on the piano. In the other, was her notebook full of scribbled, half-written joke premises and a few wine stains. She did her opening joke and the response was so quiet, she could hear the ice machine crackling in the kitchen. Joke two—a slight spattering of nervous laughter. Joke three got a heartier laugh, but then it went back to deafening quiet by joke four.

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She mercifully got through her final joke, and said, “That’s my time” long before the red light in the back of the club even went on. She scurried off stage with her beer not unlike that rat in New York scurrying across a sidewalk carrying a piece of pizza. Panicked, embarrassed, and, frankly, a little hungry.

It was just one of those nights. The last time she’d done this act—with nearly the exact same jokes—she’d received an applause break. This time, she was left questioning every one of her life decisions. Why had she come to Los Angeles? How was the next month’s rent supposed to get paid? Why had she cut her hair in the “Rachel” haircut?

As she was about to enter the hallway that led into the bar area, she could feel actual tears forming behind her eyes, like little faucets that were slowly turning on. “Don’t cry at the comedy club,” she told herself. Rather, “Don’t cry at the comedy club AGAIN.” But as the tears came anyway, she looked up and lo and behold, there was Robin Williams. She stuttered, “You. Are. One of my favorites. Ever.” He looked at her, his blue eyes warmly crinkling and said, “You were amazing.”

It hadn’t been true. But the fact that he would go out of his way to make this total stranger’s awful night into one of her best at that time, was just the kind of person Robin was.

I know this because that woman was me.

I wanted to tell him about the Mork and Mindy poster on my wall as a kid, and how I had cut out Mindy’s face and put in my third-grade class photo. I wanted to tell him how much I loved his care for animals and for the unhoused and for the less fortunate. Or that because of him, I had a weird fetish for suspenders. (The last one wasn’t quite true, but I still wanted to say it.)

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But instead I merely laughed and said, “Oh, thank you. But I can do better.” He gave me a gentle look like, “We’re all in this together,” and even though I knew I’d never have a career like his, it dawned on me that it didn’t matter. That being kind to others actually DID matter and that he was a lighthouse in a really stormy, pitch-black ocean.

I stuck it out and just a few years later, got to perform in the super cool and coveted “New Faces” show at the Just for Laughs Montreal Comedy Fest. Didn’t kill there either, but I was able to step back and look down from an aerial view. How we uplift others, whether through laughter or kindness, is really the only control we have in this world.

Years later, after Robin passed away, I had heart surgery and was feeling down. I had read that cardiac issues could leave a person biochemically depressed and the first person I thought of was him. I messaged our mutual friend from San Francisco and asked if he remembered Robin speaking to him about heart surgery and depression. He only affirmed that yes, it was a very real side effect and that I should take it seriously.

I have always thought of the neurotransmitter Serotonin like it was a flowery perfume. Notes of honey, lavender, rose. When someone has a good amount of it floating through their synapses, it leaves trace of itself wherever it goes, as if the tunnels it burrows under pumps it out through a steam grate. But from what I’ve heard, Robin struggled with that too. And yet he still found a way to leave a lovely and inviting scent behind him, because he wanted to make sure OTHERS were okay.

I guess, even in his death, I was looking to Robin for answers. But one puzzle remains solved: making others happy is the kindest thing we can do, even when our own valves—whether heart or perfume pumps—fail to work.

This article originally appeared in April. It has been updated.