An Event That Changed Me: My Train Was in an Accident – and then I Overheard a Little Girl Sobbing.

That instant I realized the end was near 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 recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” 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 appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, 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 hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.