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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved 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 stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine 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 dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, 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; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. 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 offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, 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 more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.