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That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. 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. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes 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 crash also changed my method of handling 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.