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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 reunite with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. 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 anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.