I didn't get rid of my Tesla. I let it go. Like a bird flying from its cage. But this one had horsepower that mocked physics and scolded me with sensors like a nosy neighbor.
It all began with regret. Not moral guilt. sell Tesla performance model Wallet pain. I felt like I was feeding a beast with every charge every time I pulled into a Supercharger. I would say, “That’s $18 for electricity?” as I watched the meter whirl. “That’s what my therapist charges per hour.”
After that, there was silence. No engine. No sound. Just whisper motion. Calm? Yes. Until you find out that peace comes at a price. The insurance kept climbing. Tires were absurdly priced. And don’t even get me started on those “minor” body repairs that emptied my wallet when some idiot hit the door in the organic grocery store.
I love 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 old smartphone you outgrew. It still runs fine. It’s just not special anymore.
So I made up my mind: it’s time to let go. I thought it would be easy. “Hey world, I’ve got a low-mileage EV, a full history, and a whiff of determination.” Nope. Reality slapped me awake.
First, the trade-in offer from Tesla. I snorted. Then I checked again. Then I wept a little bit into my oat milk latte. They offered basically scooter money. Their pricing bot must assume I live in a time warp 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, Fresh, Finders Keepers.” 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 bad dating profile.
There were a lot of responses. Some real. Some junk.
“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 came in flip-flops. Took out a multimeter. He looked at the 12V battery like he was defusing a bomb. “Well,” he said. Voltage okay.” Then he offered an insult of an offer. He said, “Oversupply, buddy.” Truly delightful.
At last, I met Sarah. Calm. Ready. Had a binder. She asked me about the mileage left in the rubber, the firmware build, and if I had ever used Track Mode (I hadn’t). Too afraid. We haggled. Respectfully. Like two adults. Unheard of.
Paperwork signed in a coffee shop. She paid by wiring the money. I turned off my key fob. It felt odd. Like severing a hidden lifeline.
I strolled away. The next day, I took the shuttle. It felt weird. Very clunky. Not fast. But also… free. No more phantom software pings. No more supercharger shame.
Selling a Tesla isn’t merely a business deal. It’s intimate. You’re not just shifting code and metal. You’re saying goodbye to the version of you that thought the future was quiet, quick, and parked in your driveway.