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That instant I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside 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, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.