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T I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, 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 stayed close for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.