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T I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

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 assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew 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.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance 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 general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.