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That instant it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant 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 dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building 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 using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware 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 set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.