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T I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; 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, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.