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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – 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. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware 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 somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, 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 onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. 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.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.