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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 on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to get older.