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That instant I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.