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T 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 on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling 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 – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, 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 now been friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.