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The moment I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop 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 – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – 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 in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort 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 allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.