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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 best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy 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 railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.