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T it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.