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That instant I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, 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; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise 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. 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 – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, 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 hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped 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 key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.