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T it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, 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; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant 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 whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.