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T it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act 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 impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.