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The moment it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly 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 made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard 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 put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.