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That instant I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. 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. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, 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. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.