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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.