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T I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. 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 – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event 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 whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.