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That instant I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side 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 taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself 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 ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.