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The moment I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled 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 got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, 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, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.