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That instant I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman 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 waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped 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 crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.