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T I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, 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 anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side 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 transported to the 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 enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.