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That instant it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

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 lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.