Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Today, on McCoy’s 5th birthday, we say goodbye to our family home before we hand the keys over tomorrow. The walls of this home were a witness. They’ve seen love and laughter, pain and suffering, hurt and healing. They’ve seen birth, death, painful goodbyes, and new beginnings. These walls have held us during a pandemic, the loss of our son, the death of my dad. More of my tears have fallen inside this house than in all the other places my tears have ever fallen combined. The shower alone probably has a Tears Spilled Record individually, but our bedroom beats that out by at least half a million tons. Childhood has flared brilliantly within these walls, mainly ignited by my magnificently playful husband. McCoy’s spirit has raced equally playfully down these halls every day since he was born inside of it – opening doors, turning toys on, flashing lights, always finding ways to make us feel him. And while I’ve brought two other newborn babies home “to” it, only he was born into it, and therefore of it. This place is undeniably linked to him and saying goodbye to it rips something open inside me again. But hopefully what all those fit meatheads say is true when they explain: “It’s the microtears that make you stronger.” Beyond the walls, something even more treasured was built brick-by-brick: a community of friends that became family. God knew what was coming for us before He put us on “the Best Street in America,” and these folks surrounded us in our time of grief, and loved us so damn well. I refuse to say goodbye to them, because these friendships we’ve made aren’t ones that are bound by proximity – no, these are those “no-matter-what” kinda friends. The night McCoy died, we walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to see the little garden the neighborhood kids planted for him while he was on life support in the NICU. As we walked, we noticed blue hearts hung on each door of our loving street. Every year, on his birthday, these no-matter-what friends throw him (and us) a party that makes each understandably hard milestone a day to look forward to. Each year, this day brings less pain and more joy. I think they call that healing, so thanks to my healers on the Court💙
Always space for him 💙 right next to his chubby-cheeked twin
My butterfly, sugar baby 🦋 #Whazzupp #ThisIsUs
Loss hits hard, especially when it touches those we love. Taking your son to a t-ball game, knowing your friends little boy should be on the same team is a heart wrenching reminder of what’s missing. McCoy may not be here physically catching pop fly’s and scoring home runs, but we will always feel his presence as our angel in the outfield. Being able to create special little details for McCoy’s heavenly birthday each year has become a bittersweet joy, as I am always left in admiration of the Bosworths strength and resilience. Remember years may pass, but the need for support never fades, as a piece of them will always be missing ❤️👼💙 ⚾️
✨ McCoy Magic ✨
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
A lovely 18 hours in New York cheering on our girl 🎾
