I didn’t think letting go of my Tesla would feel like dumping someone who still crushes Instagram. But here we are. Standing in the rain. Me holding a clipboard. The car looking smug in silence.
It started with financial unease. Not eco-guilt. Practical guilt. Only Used Tesla Like when you realize your side project bleeds cash. Insurance spiked. Tires? More than a vacation to Portugal. And don’t get me started on that $1,200 body shop bill because some genius opened their door into mine at Whole Foods. “Sorry!” they yelled, already running for their quinoa. No insurance claim. Just my loss.
I love the tech. The silence. The way it gets smarter while I sleep. One night it just… downloaded a new trick. Added a surprise function. Felt like Christmas morning. But after three years, the magic dulled. Now it just feels like a very costly rolling gadget.
So I typed “sell my Tesla” into Google. Big mistake. First result? Tesla’s trade-in page. Filled it out. Took pictures. Waited. Got an offer. Laughed. Then checked my bank account. Then laughed until I cried. They offered less than a used Subaru with mismatched doors and a tape deck. Seriously. I could’ve bought a van covered in band stickers for more.
Fine. DIY it is.
Listed it on Reddit. Forums where people argue about regen braking like it’s Olympic sport. Title: “Tesla Model 3 LR – Sharp, Silent, Obsessed With Its Own Software.” Added pics. One of the dash. One of the car under streetlights. Looked moody. Or like it was about to confess secrets.
Messages poured in.
“Can I pay in Dogecoin?”
“Does it come with Elon’s blessing?” (Spoiler: no. Forever doesn’t exist).
“My wife says it looks like a spaceship. Can we test drive during a full moon?”
One guy showed up in Birkenstocks. Carried a infrared gun. Checked the battery pack like he was detecting aliens. Said, “Thermal variance is acceptable.” Then offered pennies on the dollar. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas on the block.” Drove off in a Toyota. I felt mocked.
Then came Lina. Calm. Prepared. Brought her mechanic. Not a favor. A paid pro. He scanned battery logs. Nodded at the screen. “Battery health solid. Good bones.” She asked if I’d ever tracked it. I hadn’t. Too cautious. We negotiated. Fair. No drama. Signed papers in a café. She paid immediately. I revoked my key fob. Car made a soft beep. Final.
Walked home. Took the bus next day. Noisy. Slow. Full of real life. Miss the silence? Sometimes. Mostly miss the autopilot in traffic. And the fact that it never needed oil.
But hey—now I’ve got cash. Enough for a motorbike. Or vacation. Either works.