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T I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

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 moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. 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 when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been 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 gave me the impression I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.