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That instant it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, 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 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, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. 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. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She was aware 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 proceeded with the social outing, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.