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The moment I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out 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 was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew 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 carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness 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 preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered 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 That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.