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T it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright 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. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

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

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, 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 front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act 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 escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.