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T I knew 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 traveling to Blackburn to reunite with 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 party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to grow older.