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That instant I realized my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated 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.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.