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The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

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 wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over 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.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.