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The moment I realized the end was near arrived during 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 recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. 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, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, 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 now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.