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T I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as our favorite wines 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. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, 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 remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.