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T I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although 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. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.