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The moment I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.