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T it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling 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, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, 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 sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.