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The moment I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, 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 turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although 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. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others 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 stayed close for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.