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The moment I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.