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The moment I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware 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 a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory 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 remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, 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 waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds 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, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.