I only met him once. Standing briefly in the lobby of a conference about marketing to women. We had gotten acquainted through email, phone, and reading—I read his work, and he read mine. Of course, I read lots more of his work because he was a prolific and amazing writer. He wrote columns for The Wall Street Journal and published five books in almost as many years.

He often lent his talent to sharing the stories of heroes. Heroes like Randy Pausch, the Carnegie Mellon Professor who taught us how to die with dignity and even while having fun; Chesley Sullenberger, the pilot who miraculously landed his plane on the Hudson River; Representative Gabby Giffords and her astronaut husband, Mark Kelly. 

But he also told stories about unknown heroes, many of them women. “Ordinary” women who became extraordinary through his eyes. He cared about women so much because he was surrounded by them—a beautiful wife and three daughters, the youngest just 16.

His name was Jeff Zaslow, and he died in February in a car accident on a snowy road in Michigan. I found out on Facebook, in the same way I learn about what my friends had for dinner or how many miles they ran. It punched me in the stomach.

I was sitting with my children in a hotel room in Florida, and I started to cry. Instantly, I was brought back to another hotel room in Florida five years ago, when I learned of the passing of a dear and close friend. And yet the reaction was almost the same: shock, sadness, and the feeling that someone who was really good had left this earth too soon. 

Jeff had told me when I was just embarking on a career reincarnation as a columnist, that I had a voice worth cultivating. It gave me my own Sally Field moment as a writer: “He really likes me!” His comments were so well-written, that I saved every one of his emails. As a further gift of his confidence, he wrote a blurb for my book.

He also connected me to Jai Pausch, the widow of Professor Randy Pausch, who made one of her first public appearances following Randy’s passing at an interview I conducted for the Young Presidents’ Organization. Jeff fiercely protected her privacy, vetting my questions before I ever had a chance even to speak to her. And together, he and I figured out how to raise money for the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network honorarium we secured on her behalf—more money than I’d ever raised. For his help, Jeff asked for nothing in return. 

While Jeff was not a close friend, he touched my life in ways he never knew. Apparently, he touched many lives. After he died, there were tributes from friends, colleagues, and those he wrote about. But what struck me most were the comments and condolences of his readers. Those who didn’t actually know him but who felt they knew him from his work; in this way, he somehow became their friend. 

Jeff’s passing made me want to acknowledge others in my life who have touched me in profound ways. Of course, there are the people closest to me—my parents, my husband (who I’ve now lived with longer than I lived with my parents), and my children. There are also those who stand at the periphery of my everyday life, yet whose influence has made a difference. These “human touch points” have shaped who I am, and often they have no idea. 

Take Mr. Wegener, my fifth-grade teacher, who told me I could write comedy and let me work on a whimsical poetical take on the Emperor’s New Clothes for our class to perform. I’m not sure I’d be a writer today if I hadn’t watched my words come to life on that stage. 

Or Susan Hight Denny, my voice teacher in college. She knew I couldn’t sing, but she helped me find the voice I needed to be a performer. Sue, who had acted on Broadway in the ’50s, regaled us with stories of playing the second Sarah Brown on Broadway in Guys & Dolls. Many of her techniques about owning the stage, claiming your spotlight, and sharing “your rays” are ones I still share with those I coach in the business. But what influenced me the most was her faith in me that I could be anything I put my mind to—even a singer who couldn’t sing. 

Another influence was Roxie Roker, who played Helen Willis on the sitcom The Jeffersons. She also happened to be the mother of my second cousin, Lenny Kravitz. I’ll never forget watching the Tony Awards when I was 12 and my mom pointing at this beautiful woman and saying, “That’s your cousin.” She had been nominated for Best Supporting Actress for a play with the Negro Ensemble Company called The River Niger. All I could think was, “A real actress was my cousin!” 

I came to know her through family celebrations. Then, when I was 16, she literally rescued me. I was traveling with a group of annoying teenagers on a cross-country bus trip, and one of the stops was Los Angeles, where the tour included a visit to watch the filming of a sitcom, The Jeffersons.

I had been miserable on the trip, calling my parents every night and begging for them to fly me home. Finally, we arrived in L.A., and Roxie—who my mother had called to ask for help—promptly whisked me away. Suddenly, in the eyes of my obnoxious traveling companions, I was cool. I stayed with Roxie that night, and the next day we had lunch at a chic Beverly Hills eatery. She told me how she became an actress, and she asked me about me. It was the first time an adult had really talked to me like…an adult. 

Years later, after I had left the practice of law to pursue acting, I learned she had cancer. I called her because I wanted to tell her about the leap I’d made, and I wanted to thank her for being such a profound influence. But her caregiver told me she was too weak to come to the phone. So I wrote her a letter. A week after I mailed it, she died. I never did know if she received my note.

Some of my touch points weren’t so positive. Like the partner at the law firm I once worked for who told me I couldn’t write. Later, I loved telling him about my column. Or my French teacher in college, who rightfully gave me my first C. Hated her. But I needed the wake-up call. And she spurred me to switch to Spanish, which really helped when I spoke in Barcelona two years ago. 

My husband shared his own touch points with me, including his high school principal, Vince Scalese. My husband was in the middle of some academic and disciplinary issues when he was elected president of his high school class. Instead of objecting, his principal let him lead and, at the same time, made it a point to teach him what it meant to lead with integrity. Few would have been so generous.

Then there’s Hamilton Jordan, who was the spirited young chief of staff in the Carter White House when my husband interned there. Hamilton inspired my husband not just because he had been a renegade who partied with the Allman Brothers, but also later, when he braved cancer and worked tirelessly to support others with cancer. 

A full 25 years after his White House stint, my husband connected with Hamilton at a dinner and had the chance to explain how his bravery inspired him. After that, whenever the wisecracking Hamilton spoke at a function where my husband was in attendance, he would refer to my husband as “the Monica Lewinsky of the Carter Administration.” He became a friend to my husband and later came to visit us in Rochester and to speak at Gilda’s Club of Rochester at our invitation, because that’s the kind of person he was. 

In this virtual world today, we often connect with people so fleetingly. Sometimes I wonder, ‘Why bother?’ Then I remember that you never know how people will influence you. LinkedIn, Facebook, and even Twitter fill our worlds with people we may never even meet. But by letting them in, some of them can make a huge difference in our lives. Jeff Zaslow is one I’m glad I got to “actually” know because he became a mentor to me. But he never knew it. My cousin, Roxie Roker, might not have known it either.

So I’ve decided to let my human “touch points” know who they are, to reach out to them, and to let them know how they’ve made a difference in my life. Because you never know when you won’t get the chance to tell them.