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The moment I realized my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. 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 other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.