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That instant I realized the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard 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.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away 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 key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.