When Dan Licardo moved to Flower Mound, Texas in 2017, he brought with him a legacy of service and quiet strength. A Navy SEAL for 16 years, Dan knew what it meant to show up, step in, and stand tall for others. So when the local fire department asked for his help after receiving new flood rescue gear they didn’t know how to use, Dan didn’t hesitate. Even after being told there was no budget to compensate him, he said, “These are the guys who are going to come save me or my family one day. Of course I’ll help.” He walked into the firehouse voluntarily, spent hours training them on what to wear, what not to wear, and how to move safely and quickly in the water. That decision would end up saving his life..
On September 4, 2018, Dan suffered a seizure behind the wheel while driving on FM 2499. His truck veered across five lanes of traffic, clipped multiple vehicles, soared through the air, and slammed into a tree. Dan’s body was pinned — the engine block pressed into his legs. The wreck was fiery, catastrophic, and nearly fatal. Two children in the car were miraculously spared, but Dan was barely alive.
When First Responders arrived, they recognized the SEAL trident decal on the truck’s rear window. And then someone said what many were thinking: “That’s Dan.” But what followed wasn’t preferential treatment — it was something deeper. It was a room full of men remembering the guy who had trained them, without pay, simply because he believed in being ready. They fought for him because that’s what First Responder-s do — for anyone. But when you recognize one of your own, your urgency becomes personal.
After almost an hour of struggling to free him, one firefighter, Daniel Pierce, took the extraordinary step that changed everything. Seeing the crew couldn’t lift the engine manually, he jumped into a fire truck, backed it up to Dan’s vehicle, hooked chains from the fire engine to Dan’s frame, and yanked the entire wreckage off the tree. That single act freed Dan’s crushed body and allowed the team to extract him.
Dan was airlifted to Parkland Hospital, and that’s when the second miracle began. He flatlined — twice. His injuries were devastating: flail chest, a shattered pelvis, mangled legs, massive internal bleeding. The trauma team gave him 94 units of blood — nearly triple what’s typically allotted to a single patient. Dr. Michael Cripps, the trauma surgeon on call, noticed the waiting room swelling with people — SEAL teammates, police officers, firefighters, and friends. He turned to the battalion chief and asked, “Who is this guy?” When he found out Dan was a Navy SEAL, Cripps made a vow: “I saved one Green Beret. I’m not losing my first SEAL.”
Dan died twice. Cripps brought him back both times, once by performing CPR with his full body weight, jumping on Dan’s chest, refusing to call time. Other doctors had nearly given up, but Cripps changed his angle, kept going, and Dan’s heart finally started beating again.
While Dan remained unconscious in ICU, his community rallied. His hometown in upstate New York organized a blood drive. The high school he once attended had a massive rock outside — something the students would paint for big games or rivalries. This time, they painted it white, and across it they painted a bone frog — the symbol of fallen Navy SEALs — taken from a tattoo Dan wore on his right calf. A friend asked the hospital staff if they could preserve that tattoo before his leg was amputated. The doctor, standing in an OR floor coated with blood, wiped off Dan’s leg, took a photo of the tattoo, and brought it out so they could turn it into a t-shirt design. The shirt featured the bone frog on the back, an American flag on the front, and the words: Stay Strong Dan Licardo.
Those shirts spread quickly. So did the support. People Dan hadn’t seen in years showed up. Friends from his hometown posted photos wearing the shirts in solidarity. Local businesses donated. Word reached across the country.
When Dan finally woke up, he couldn’t speak. He was intubated, wrists broken, one hand in traction, ribs shattered, and he was unaware of what had happened. His girlfriend and cousin stood beside him, along with one of his closest friends. He motioned for something to write on and scribbled, “I okay.” Not perfect, but clear enough. He was still in there.
That’s when she told him. “You were in a wreck… and you lost your legs.” His eyes welled with tears. Then he asked, “What’s next?”
Dan had every reason to give up — but he didn’t. And part of what gave him that strength was something that happened just five months earlier. He’d been struggling with a different trauma — betrayal, a crumbling marriage, thoughts darker than he cared to admit. A friend had introduced him to Adaptive Training Foundation (ATF), a place where wounded veterans and adaptive athletes train side-by-side. At the time, Dan still had both legs. He walked in and met Brian Aft, a Marine double amputee doing pushups with only his hands touching the floor. Dan got in his face, SEAL-style, shouted, “Come on, Marine! Show me something!” It was their love language — sharp, competitive, bonded by hardship. And Brian delivered.
That moment stayed with Dan. When he woke up and learned about his amputations, he remembered those athletes. He remembered Brian. And he told himself, If they can do it, I can do it.
That’s the Spirit we celebrate at Spirit of a Hero. The kind that survives loss, stares down pain, and comes back stronger — not just because of who you are, but because of the people who refuse to let you fall.
Dan’s story reminds us why blood drives matter, why community matters, and why we can never say enough about the men and women who show up when it counts — our Heroes, our First Responders, and our Frontline Workers.
Dan is still here — a living reminder of how fragile life can be… and how powerful the Spirit of a Hero truly is.
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