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T it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act 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 escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered 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 has become shorthand 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 shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.