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That instant I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. 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 caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. 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 firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost 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 enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered 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 has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.