There is a quiet, radical power in being the reason someone else smiles. In a world that often measures success by how much space we take up or how loudly our names are shouted, there is a different kind of greatness found in the pursuit of “sympathetic joy” — the art of becoming a vessel for someone else’s delight.

There is a Buddhist concept called Mudita, which is the practice of finding happiness purely in the happiness of others. It’s the opposite of envy; it’s a vicarious glow.

As a child, I wanted to be a standup comedian. More specifically, I wanted to be just like Robin Williams. He was my hero and I would always find ways to listen to his material, even though my parents didn’t want me to because they thought it was too mature for me.

In addition to being a brilliant standup, Williams was the patron saint of the sympathetic joy philosophy. There are numerous stories of him wandering into hospital wards, unannounced and without cameras, simply to disrupt the heavy silence of a terminal illness with a burst of laughter. He wasn’t there as a movie star; he was there as a tonic.

But there is a specific moment from the filming of the 1995 comedy “Nine Months” that captures the essence of selfless joy better than any Oscar-winning performance.

The director had originally slated Williams for the more prominent, visible role as a Russian doctor. It was a safe bet — a role where the audience could see his face, his expressions and his celebrity.

But Williams pushed back. He didn't want the white coat; he wanted to be the rude guy in the dinosaur costume at the toy store.

The director was baffled. He argued that if Williams wore the massive, cumbersome dinosaur head, the audience wouldn't even know it was him. The star power would be muffled by felt and foam.

Williams’ response was simple: He didn’t care. He knew the dinosaur was funnier. He knew the absurdity of that costume and the fight scene with the two fathers would land a harder punchline and spark a louder laugh from a child in the theater than a standard doctor role ever could.

There is a profound spiritual lesson in that dinosaur mask. Often, our charity or our good deeds are tethered to our identity. We want to be the ones seen doing the good thing. But the highest form of service is when we are willing to be invisible if it means the joy produced is greater.

In certain ancient traditions, it is taught that the purest happiness isn’t something we create for ourselves, but something we mirror back from others. When we prioritize the laughter of the room over the recognition of the performer, we tap into a source of energy that never runs dry.

Whether it’s a world-famous comedian in a toy store or a neighbor helping with the groceries, the magic happens the moment we stop asking “How do I look?” and start asking “How can they feel better?”

Sometimes, to bring the most light into the world, you have to be willing to put on the mask and let the joy speak for itself.