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T I realized the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.