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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled 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 had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, 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 taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.