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The moment I knew 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 just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “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 weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn 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 aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.