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The moment I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, 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 talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant 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 dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked 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. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed 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 using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.