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That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. 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 upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; 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, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value 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 over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.