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The moment I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

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

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over 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 scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched 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. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.