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T I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, 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; 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 called out, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only 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 key factor in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to get older.