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That instant I realized my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. 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, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – 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, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled 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 was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated 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 now been friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.