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T I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward 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, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, 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; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.