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That instant it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; 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, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, 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, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event 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 skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.