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The moment I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled 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 made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal 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 any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.