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That instant I realized the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down 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 remembered anything about it, and how significant 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 with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.