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T I realized 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 headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” 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. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued 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.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.