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The moment it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out 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 looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered 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 ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.