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The moment it dawned on me the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down 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 complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.