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The moment it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of looking outwards 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 "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.