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That instant I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle 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 asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.