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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine 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 dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger 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. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to grow older.