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The moment I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out 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. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.