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T it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – 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 in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing 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 focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally 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 remained friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to get older.