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The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. 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 primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to get older.