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The moment I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out 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. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned 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, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. 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.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.