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The moment it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how significant 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.