Dear Robin,

July 21st would have been your 65th birthday. I don't know how everyone else celebrated it, but I celebrated it by listening to your stand-up specials and wondering what you would be joking about today.

I knew you as the voice of the Genie in my favorite childhood movie. I knew you as the "funny Grandma Guy" in 'Mrs. Doubtfire.' As I got older, I heard about your roles in 'Good Will Hunting,' 'Dead Poets Society,' 'Good Morning Vietnam' and 'Hamlet.' At the same time, I heard about your battle with addiction, and later on, your fight with depression.

To know that the funniest man in the world suffered from depression, just like me, was something that blew my mind. I'd sit in the movie theater with my younger sisters, watching you in 'Night at the Museum,' wondering how you could stay so hilarious when my depression kept me quiet, kept me sad.

But it was college when I got to know the real you, I think. I started college with the knowledge of your death, and I wondered what happened. My roommate and I binged on your movies, laughing and remembering into the wee hours of the morning.

And on my dark days, I'd turn on your stand-up and laugh until I forgot that I wanted to cry, that I wanted to be silent. Thanks to you, sir, I embraced my humor. I started saying what I wanted, what I thought. I'd make jokes or retell some of your jokes that I loved.

I discovered how you were able to stay so funny despite the depression, and that was laughter.

As stereotypical as it sounds, laughter proved to be a cure on the days that I just wanted to curl up in a ball and give up. There would be days that I wouldn't go to class, exhausted and heavy with feelings that I couldn't shake off, and I would find myself reaching for your routines on YouTube or Pandora. An hour later, I would have damp cheeks from my happy tears and would find myself at least encouraged to walk out into the world.

If that's how it was for you, I'll never know. But thank you.

Mr. Williams, you have followed me my entire life, and we have never met. If I become famous for writing, for comedy, for anything, I'm giving you partial credit because you gave me my life back before I could lose it. I wish you were still here so that I could meet you and tell you that you reminded me to laugh.

So happy birthday, Mr. Williams. We miss you.