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The moment I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, 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 gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant 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. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.