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T I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.