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T I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.