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T it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – 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, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. 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 – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured 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 general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event 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. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.