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T I realized the end was near arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. 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 party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack 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, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, 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 stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.