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The moment I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright 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 relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

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 went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck 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, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, 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 stayed close for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.