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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.