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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, 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 put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building 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 during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.