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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. 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 hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, 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 were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.