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T I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit 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 talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” 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; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse 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 when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.