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The moment I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

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

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach 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 made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.