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That instant it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to get older.