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The moment I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, 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 remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.