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That instant I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth 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 now been friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.