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T I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated 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 young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, 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, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.