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That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during 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 recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the toilet during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking 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 broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act 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 general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal 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, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to get older.