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The moment I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; 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 saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed 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 scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, 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 anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.