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T I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered 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 capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.