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That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that 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 come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.