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T I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness 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 avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of looking outwards 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 now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.