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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 closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved 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 stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

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

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.