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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, 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 – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others 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 stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.