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That instant I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – 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 in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.