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T I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew 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 memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though 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. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. 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. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value 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 now been friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.