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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment 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 a fellow passenger instructed me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, 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 – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned 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. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself 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 has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.