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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed 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 dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

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

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – 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, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn 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 got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.