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 clipboard. The car staring back blankly. 
It started with regret. Not eco-guilt. Money guilt. Like when you realize your subscription costs more than groceries. 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 halfway to the kale. No insurance claim. Just my loss. I love the tech. The silence. The way it updates itself like magic. One night it just… got better. Added a new feature. Felt like Christmas morning. But after three years, the magic wore off. Now it just feels like a very pricey iPad on wheels. So I typed “sell my Tesla” into Google. Big mistake. First result? Tesla’s trade-in page. Filled it out. Took uploads. Waited. Got an offer. Snorted. Then checked my bank account. Then laughed harder. 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 Facebook Marketplace. Communities where Read on tire wear is discussed like fine wine. Title: “Tesla Model 3 LR – Fast, Clean, Slightly Addicted to Autopilot.” Added pics. One of the interior. One of the car under streetlights. Looked mysterious. Or like it was about to confess secrets. Messages poured in. “Can I pay in Pokémon cards?” “Does it come with free Supercharging forever?” (Spoiler: no. Forever died in 2021). “My wife says it looks like a spaceship. Can we test drive during a thunderstorm?” One guy showed up in flip-flops with socks. Carried a laser thermometer. Checked the battery pack like he was detecting aliens. Said, “Thermal variance is acceptable.” Then offered a lowball. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas on the block.” Drove off in a Toyota. I felt mocked. Then came Sofia. Calm. Prepared. Brought her expert. Not a friend. A paid pro. He scanned the whole car. Nodded at the screen. “Battery health over 90%. Good bones.” She asked if I’d ever pushed it. I hadn’t. Too cautious. We negotiated. Reasonable. No drama. Signed papers in a coffee place. She paid fast. I revoked my key fob. Car made a soft beep. Final. Walked home. Took the bus next day. Noisy. Crowded. Full of strangers with smells. Miss the silence? Sometimes. Mostly miss the effortless glide. And the fact that it never needed maintenance like a gas car. But hey—now I’ve got money. Enough for a motorbike. Or a savings cushion. Either works.
It started with regret. Not eco-guilt. Money guilt. Like when you realize your subscription costs more than groceries. 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 halfway to the kale. No insurance claim. Just my loss. I love the tech. The silence. The way it updates itself like magic. One night it just… got better. Added a new feature. Felt like Christmas morning. But after three years, the magic wore off. Now it just feels like a very pricey iPad on wheels. So I typed “sell my Tesla” into Google. Big mistake. First result? Tesla’s trade-in page. Filled it out. Took uploads. Waited. Got an offer. Snorted. Then checked my bank account. Then laughed harder. 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 Facebook Marketplace. Communities where Read on tire wear is discussed like fine wine. Title: “Tesla Model 3 LR – Fast, Clean, Slightly Addicted to Autopilot.” Added pics. One of the interior. One of the car under streetlights. Looked mysterious. Or like it was about to confess secrets. Messages poured in. “Can I pay in Pokémon cards?” “Does it come with free Supercharging forever?” (Spoiler: no. Forever died in 2021). “My wife says it looks like a spaceship. Can we test drive during a thunderstorm?” One guy showed up in flip-flops with socks. Carried a laser thermometer. Checked the battery pack like he was detecting aliens. Said, “Thermal variance is acceptable.” Then offered a lowball. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas on the block.” Drove off in a Toyota. I felt mocked. Then came Sofia. Calm. Prepared. Brought her expert. Not a friend. A paid pro. He scanned the whole car. Nodded at the screen. “Battery health over 90%. Good bones.” She asked if I’d ever pushed it. I hadn’t. Too cautious. We negotiated. Reasonable. No drama. Signed papers in a coffee place. She paid fast. I revoked my key fob. Car made a soft beep. Final. Walked home. Took the bus next day. Noisy. Crowded. Full of strangers with smells. Miss the silence? Sometimes. Mostly miss the effortless glide. And the fact that it never needed maintenance like a gas car. But hey—now I’ve got money. Enough for a motorbike. Or a savings cushion. Either works.