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That instant I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved 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 stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She was aware 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 put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act 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 aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing 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 obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.