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The moment I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads 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, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, 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, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.