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That instant it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

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

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.