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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to give the girl to him 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 down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.