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T I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, 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 tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I 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. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. 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. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.