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The moment I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – 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, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell 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 demonstrated the importance of focusing on others 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 remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.