How I Said Goodbye To My Tesla Without Going Broke (Or Fully Losing It)

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 tablet. The car judging me with its lifeless LED eyes.

It started with financial unease. Not climate guilt. Wallet guilt. Learn the truth Like when you realize your subscription costs more than groceries. Insurance spiked. Tires? Pricier than two weeks in Bali. 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 a dented ego.

I love the tech. The silence. The way it updates itself like magic. 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. Cackled. Then checked my bank account. Then laughed like a maniac. 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 tire wear is discussed like fine wine. Title: “Tesla Model 3 LR – Sharp, Silent, Obsessed With Its Own Software.” Added pics. One of the cockpit. One of the car under garage light. Looked cinematic. Or like it was auditioning for a noir film.

Messages poured in.  
“Can I pay in Fortnite skins?”  
“Does it come with Elon’s blessing?” (Spoiler: no. Forever died in 2021).  
“My wife says it looks like a spaceship. Can we test drive during a solar eclipse?”

One guy showed up in flip-flops with socks. Carried a weird gadget. Checked the battery pack like he was detecting aliens. Said, “Thermal variance is acceptable.” Then offered $6K below asking. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas chasing too few dreamers.” Drove off in a Toyota. I felt mocked.

Then came Sofia. Calm. Prepared. Brought her technician. Not a friend. A paid pro. He scanned battery logs. 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. Smooth. No drama. Signed papers in a bubble tea shop. She paid on the spot. I revoked my key fob. Car made a soft beep. Final.

Walked home. Took the bus next day. Loud. Slow. Full of humans being messy. Miss the silence? Sometimes. Mostly miss the autopilot in traffic. And the fact that it never needed gas.

But hey—now I’ve got cash. Enough for a motorcycle. Or vacation. Either works.