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T it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend 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 – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how significant 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, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.