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The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant 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 a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched 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 sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.