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T it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped 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 crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus 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 made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.