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T I realized 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 headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already 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 learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds 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, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus 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 gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.