Why remembering Robin wasn’t just about him—it was about all of us.
I didn’t plan to write about Robin Williams.
It wasn’t a campaign. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t timed to anything.
It was a feeling.
Quiet. Sudden.
Something between grief and grace.
I remembered him—not as an actor, or a comedian, or even a legend.
I remembered him as a mirror.
Someone who reflected the world back to itself, with tenderness and ache and too much giving.
And I realized—I understood that shape.
Comedians Always Knew
In every culture, long before we had thought leaders or online platforms, we had jesters.
Court fools. Holy clowns.
They were the only ones allowed to tell the truth to power—because they wrapped it in laughter.
They made the unbearable bearable.
They mocked the empire without a sword.
They softened the blow by making us exhale.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always watched comedians differently.
Not just for the punchlines, but the pauses.
The way they read the room. The way they disappear into the need.
The way they offer peace without asking for any in return.
Because sometimes that’s what I’ve done, too.
Robin’s Spark Wasn’t His Fame—It Was His Presence
When I sat down to write that reflection, I didn’t want to canonize him.
I wasn’t interested in sainthood.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the sacred weight he carried.
How he made others feel held, even when he was unraveling inside.
That’s not performance.
That’s presence.
That’s ministry disguised as mirth.
He didn’t preach. But he practiced—
Grace. Kindness. Mercy in the form of comedy.
Love disguised as play.
I wrote it not to celebrate his career,
but to honor the cost of carrying light in a world that keeps asking for more.
This Was Personal
Because I know what it’s like to be the mirror.
To read the room before you read yourself.
To comfort others, not knowing where your own pain belongs.
To give and give until all you want is to just be—without being useful, without being “on.”
And I’m still learning—slowly, uncomfortably—how to hold my own light.
How to speak without performing.
How to stay soft without disappearing.
What the Spark Still Means
Robin didn’t belong to any religion I know of.
But what he carried? That was spiritual.
He reminded us what it means to be fully human—
to feel everything,
to still offer something,
and to know—quietly, surely—that it mattered.
And maybe that’s the spark we all share.
The one we’re born with.
The one we find again when we stop trying to prove, and start choosing to be present.
That reflection—Robin Williams: A Spark Like Jesus—came from this place.
From this ache.
From this hope that presence, not performance, is still sacred.