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The moment it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated 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, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. 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 smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. 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, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, 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 remained friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.