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T I realized my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” 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 penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act 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 aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to grow older.