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That instant I realized 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 traveling to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, 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; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched 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. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.