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T I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with 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 crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.