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T I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, 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 look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years 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 created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.