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The moment I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched 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 traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn 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 soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since 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 shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, 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 capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.