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T I realized 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 reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant 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 a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” 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 put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched 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. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.