A Moment That Transformed My Perspective: The Train I Was On Derailed – and subsequently I Overheard a Little Girl Weeping.

The moment I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“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 sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired 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, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance 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 sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped 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 demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, 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 ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.