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T I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting 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 – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, 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 transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.