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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.