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That instant 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 traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment 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, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed 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 smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out 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. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.