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T I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable 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, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, 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 look round,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.