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T I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

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

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.