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That instant I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

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

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – 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 in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor 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. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal 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, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.