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That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop 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 – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. 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 set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.