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The moment I realized 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 traveling to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, 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. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me 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. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt 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 made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.