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The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed 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 got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

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 went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, 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 driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She had heard 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 included a unforgettable performance 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 general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, 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 capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.