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T I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with 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 pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered 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 thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.