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That instant I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable 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 lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

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 when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort 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 preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how significant 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 ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.