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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 headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. 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. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness 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. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.