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That instant I realized 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 on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought 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 – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, 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. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason 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. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, 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 ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.