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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, 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 – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. 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 big a deal 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 whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.