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T I knew 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 traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.