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The moment I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

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

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, 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 pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.