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That instant I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware 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 pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance 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 got away 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 preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.