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That instant I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend 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 made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. 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 whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – 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, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.