I stood in the garage. Arms crossed. Coffee half-empty. The car just sat there. Not moving. Fully charged. Smug, probably. It didn’t need me. And I didn’t need it anymore. But saying goodbye? That’s harder than describing blockchain to your dad.
Selling a Tesla isn’t like trading in your old Corolla with 300,000 km and a tape deck that eats cassettes. Only Used Tesla This thing remembers your music. Learns your route. Judges you when you drive aggressively. It’s not a car. It’s a robotic partner with memory.
First move? Tesla’s official trade-in page. Felt straightforward. Sterile. Type in VIN, upload photos, wait for algorithmic hug. Got offer. Gasped. Blinked. Checked my eyesight. Offer was worse than a Craigslist beater. And that thing requires prayer to start.
So I went rogue. Listed it on Facebook. Buyers who argue about regen braking. One guy even tried to pay me in gift cards. Title: “Tesla Model 3 Performance – Fast, Clean, Slightly Addicted to Speed.” Added pictures. One of the car under rain. Looked moody. Or like it was thinking bad thoughts.
Messages flooded in.
“Can I test drive naked?”
“Does it come with free charging forever?” (Spoiler: no. Forever died in 2021.)
“My psychic says it’s haunted by Elon’s ego. Is that extra?”
One guy drove two hours. Wore flip-flops with socks… during the test drive. Said he wanted to “feel the silence without distraction.” Drove around the corner. Nodded. Offered far below market. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas flooding the listings.” Left without removing the headphones. Weird? Yes. But also respectful.
Then came Elena. Calm. No-nonsense. Brought her mechanic. Not a buddy with a wrench. A real pro with tools. They scanned the battery logs. Mumbled things like “Ah, 7.9% degradation… acceptable decay.” Felt like watching someone autopsy my pride.
We talked price. Straightforward. Like adults exist. She asked if I’d leave the floor mats. “They’re not mine,” I said. “They came with the car.” She smiled. “Exactly.”
Signed paperwork in a café. She paid on the spot. I revoked my phone key. Car beeped once. Final. Silent. Like a robotic goodbye.
Walked home. Took the bus next day. Chaotic. Full of strangers. Miss the autopilot? Sometimes. Mostly miss the traffic-jam relief. And the fact that it never needed oil.
But hey—now I’ve got money. Enough for a therapist. Either works.
Turns out, selling a Tesla isn’t about the car. It’s about admitting the shiny tomorrow you wanted isn’t today’s reality. And that’s okay. Some dreams are meant to be borrowed, not owned forever.