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The moment 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 visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated 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.

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, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.