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The moment I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. 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 turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, 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 put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, 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 over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.