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That instant it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down 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, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She knew 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 pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died 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 violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.