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That instant I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.