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T I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.