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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 headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. 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, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse 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 using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others 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 remained friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.