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The moment I realized my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. 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, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – 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, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn 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 sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years 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 protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.