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T it dawned on me the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew 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 pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.