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The moment I knew my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. 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. 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 stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air 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, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “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 sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via 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 searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away 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. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.