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The moment I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that 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. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.