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The moment I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, 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; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that 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 train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, 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 has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.