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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, 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 capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.