I didn’t think selling a Tesla would feel like breaking up with someone who still looks good in photos. But here we are. In the drizzle. Me holding a phone. The car staring back blankly.
It started with regret. Not moral guilt. Practical guilt. onlyusedtesla.com Like when you realize your side project bleeds cash. Insurance crept higher. Tires? More than a vacation to Portugal. And don’t get me started on that ridiculous repair because someone couldn’t park straight. “Sorry!” they yelled, already grabbing oat milk. No insurance claim. Just my loss.
I love the tech. The silence. The way it gets smarter while I sleep. One night it just… got better. Added a new feature. Felt like holiday magic. But after three years, the magic wore off. 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 snaps. Waited. Got an offer. Cackled. Then checked my bank account. Then laughed like a maniac. They offered a number lower than a 1999 Corolla with peeling paint. Seriously. I could’ve found a lawnmower worth more.
Fine. DIY it is.
Listed it on Facebook Marketplace. Communities where tire wear is discussed like fine wine. Title: “Tesla Model 3 LR – Quick, Minimalist, Haunted by Updates.” Added pics. One of the interior. One of the car under streetlights. Looked moody. Or like it was hiding something.
Messages poured in.
“Can I pay in Dogecoin?”
“Does it come with free Supercharging forever?” (Spoiler: no. Forever was discontinued years ago).
“My wife says it looks like a spaceship. Can we test drive during a thunderstorm?”
One guy showed up in Birkenstocks. Carried a laser thermometer. Checked the battery pack like he was hunting ghosts. Said, “Thermal variance is acceptable.” Then offered a lowball. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas flooding the street.” Drove off in a Toyota. I felt mocked.
Then came Maya. Calm. Prepared. Brought her mechanic. Not a favor. A paid pro. He scanned the whole car. Nodded at the screen. “Battery health solid. Good bones.” She asked if I’d ever taken it to the track. I hadn’t. Too sensible. We negotiated. Fair. No drama. Signed papers in a bubble tea shop. She paid immediately. I revoked my key fob. Car made a final tone. Final.
Walked home. Took the bus next day. Noisy. Slow. Full of humans being messy. Miss the silence? Sometimes. Mostly miss the autopilot in traffic. And the fact that it never needed oil.
But hey—now I’ve got money. Enough for a motorcycle. Or a savings cushion. Either works.