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The moment I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, 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 accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.