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That instant it dawned on me 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 visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.