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That instant I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. The fact 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. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal 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 with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.