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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped 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 crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.