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The moment I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and put my 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. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched 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. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. 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.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself 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 capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.