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The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to get older.