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That instant I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building 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 when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.