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That instant it dawned on me the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. 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 hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, 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 remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.