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That instant I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet 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 remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.