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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, 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 ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.