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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – 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. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed 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, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.