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That instant I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. 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 carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.