I didn’t dump my Tesla. I set it free. Like a pet you release into the wild. But this one had 450 horsepower and liked to beep at stop signs like it was judging me.
It all began with financial dread. Not ethics. Tesla valuation guide Wallet pain. I felt like I was feeding a dragon made of lithium and pride every time I pulled into a Supercharger. I would say, “Eighteen dollars for juice,” as I watched the meter whirl. “That’s three times in therapy. Or one good guitar.”
After that, there was quiet. No engine. No sound. Just smooth rolling. Calm? Yes. Until you find out that peace has hidden costs. The insurance kept climbing. Each tire felt like buying my first car again. And don’t even get me started on those “minor” body repairs that felt like robbery when some idiot hit the door in the parking lot of righteousness.
I appreciate the technology. The upgrades that come out of nowhere. It parks itself in a horrible way, yet with confidence. But after three years, it wasn’t magical anymore. Like a phone you don’t want anymore. It still works. It’s just not the dream it once was.
So I chose: it’s time to let go. I thought it would be easy. “Hey world, I’ve got a shiny, well-kept Tesla, a maintenance record, and a whiff of determination.” Nope. The truth smacked me.
First, the trade-in offer from Tesla. I chuckled. Then I refreshed the page. Then I cried into my overpriced coffee. They offered a sum insulting enough to make me scream. Their pricing bot must assume I live in a cave and don’t know how to look up pricing on Google.
So I went DIY. Put it on every list. Tesla groups. Craigslist. That strange website where people use cryptocurrencies and emojis to buy cars. “Tesla Model S: Fast AF, Needs a New Human.” More pictures. One of just the car. One with me standing too close with a stalker vibe. That one got deleted. It looked like a lonely hearts ad.
There were tons of messages. Some real. Some absurd.
“Is it able to fly?”
“Will you take payment in Bitcoin or soul?”
“My dog can tell when EVs have bad energy. Can I take him for a test drive?”
One guy arrived looking unprepared. Took out a multimeter. He looked at the 12V battery like life depended on it. “Well,” he said. Voltage okay.” Then he offered pocket change. He said, “Oversupply, buddy.” What a guy.
At last, I met Lisa. Relaxed. Ready. Had a spreadsheet. She asked me about the mileage left in the rubber, the latest update, and if I had ever used Track Mode (I hadn’t). Too afraid. We debated. Kindly. Like two civilized humans. Unheard of.
Paperwork signed in a coffee shop. She paid by instant transfer. I turned off my key fob. It felt surreal. Like severing a hidden lifeline.
I strolled away. The next day, I took the bus. It felt weird. Very loud. Not fast. But also… liberating. No more phantom software pings. No more charging guilt.
Selling a Tesla isn’t merely a business deal. It’s emotional. You’re not just trading tech and steel. You’re saying goodbye to a part of yourself that imagined perfection was four wheels and a battery.