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That instant it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although 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 train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.