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T it dawned on me the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop 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 – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. 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 anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.