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T I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “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; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating 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 dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.