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The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious 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. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. 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, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.