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That instant 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 visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away 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 featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.