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The moment I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew 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 set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given 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. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.