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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 closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite 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 upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through 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 on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance 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 aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.