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The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory 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 – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped 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 averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier 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 demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.