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The moment I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “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 weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through 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 descending via a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.