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T it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” 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 sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, 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. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away 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 primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, 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 now been friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.