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T I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air 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. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. 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 shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. 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. Looking after her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.