An Event That Transformed My Perspective: The Train I Was On Crashed – and afterward I Overheard a Child Weeping.

That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.