There have been a couple of times in my life when the people I thought would be pivotal weren’t, and those hovering around the edges of my life suddenly became incredibly important.

Usually in a good way.

Not always.

Not the most optimistic opening, I know, but I’m talking about real life here and real life isn’t always neat.

I was just shy of my 55th birthday when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Telling family and close friends was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Thankfully they rallied round, said all the right things and helped me through what was a difficult period.

But one friendship surprised me.

She was someone I cared about deeply. Younger than me, with younger children who I absolutely adored. We had been close for years.

Yet as treatment progressed, the conversations became less frequent.

The messages became fewer.

Eventually they stopped altogether.

At the time it hurt enormously.

Looking back now, with the benefit of hindsight, I don’t think it was a lack of caring. I think the reality of serious illness was simply more than she could cope with, so she stepped away to protect herself.

I understand that now, even if I didn’t understand it then.

What I’ve learned is that people don’t always show up in the ways we expect them to.

Sometimes the people closest to us can’t give us what we need.

And sometimes the people we barely notice step forward at exactly the right moment.

A few years later I found myself in a very different situation.

I’d walked away from a role in the NHS.

My confidence wasn’t low. It was lower than low.

I’d stopped believing in my own abilities and had absolutely no idea what I was going to do next.

My response was highly professional.

I pulled a duvet over my head and ignored the world.

Then my phone rang.

It was the Managing Director of a supplier I’d introduced into a previous organisation.

We weren’t close friends.

We weren’t socialising every weekend.

In truth, I probably thought of him as little more than a LinkedIn contact.

I nearly didn’t answer.

When I explained I was no longer in the NHS and therefore unlikely to be much use to him, he paused and replied:

“You’re at a loose end then?”

That may be the greatest understatement ever spoken.

Then he said:

“Can we meet in London in a couple of days? I’ll buy you lunch and we can have a natter.”

Given he lived in the North West, I appreciated the effort.

So we met.

He asked questions.

He listened.

He offered me a short-term role, just a couple of days a week for three months, helping his company understand the client’s perspective.

Nothing more.

Or so it seemed.

Ten years and two acquisitions later, I’m working for a global technology company.

All because I answered a phone call.

Looking back, I’ve realised that life is full of what sociologists call “weak ties” — people who sit on the edges of our lives rather than at the centre.

Former colleagues.

Old managers.

Acquaintances.

People we haven’t spoken to for years.

Most of the time we barely think about them.

But every now and again one of those connections opens a door, offers a perspective, asks a question or creates an opportunity that changes everything.

It’s one of the reasons I’ve never underestimated the value of a conversation.

Not because every conversation is life-changing.

Most aren’t.

But you never know which one might be.

And sometimes the person who changes the direction of your life isn’t the person you call when things go wrong.

It’s the person who simply decides to call and ask how you’re doing.