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That instant I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – 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, we later learned had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of focusing on others 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 stayed close 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. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.