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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – 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 female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be 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 made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed 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 likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger 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 complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.