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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. 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 anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.