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The moment I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable 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 woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, 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 waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, 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. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter 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 it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered 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 capacity to handle any situation, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.