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That instant I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. 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 friend was waiting, visibly shaken. 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved 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 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 primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.