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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 dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. 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 glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed 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 during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. 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 anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, 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 skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to get older.