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That instant I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly 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 got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although 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. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, 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, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.