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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, 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 our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

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. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She was aware 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.