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T I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked 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 expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. 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 hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us 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 soothing her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, 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 ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.