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T it dawned on me my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “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 large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. 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 calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.