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That instant I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, 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 anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 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 full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.