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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. 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 provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.