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T I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated 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.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on 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 showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.