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That instant I knew my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle 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. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over 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 onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned 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. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.