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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered 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 ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.