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That instant I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed 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 got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, 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 fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.