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That instant I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, 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 reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “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; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to get older.