Tesla Breakup Plan: Selling My Ev Without Losing My Shirt (Or My Sanity)

I didn’t think selling a Tesla would feel like breaking up with someone who still looks good in photos. But here we are. Standing in the rain. Me holding a tablet. The car staring back blankly.

It started with guilt. Not moral guilt. Money guilt. onlyusedtesla.com 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 pain.

I love the tech. The silence. The way it updates itself like magic. One night it just… downloaded a new trick. Added a bonus upgrade. Felt like a free toy. But after three years, the magic faded. 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 uploads. Waited. Got an offer. Cackled. Then checked my bank account. Then laughed until I cried. 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 Craigslist. Communities where tire wear is discussed like fine wine. Title: “Tesla Model 3 LR – Quick, Minimalist, Haunted by Updates.” Added pics. One of the dash. One of the car under streetlights. Looked mysterious. Or like it was auditioning for a noir film.

Messages poured in.  
“Can I pay in Pokémon cards?”  
“Does it come with a lifetime warranty?” (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 Birkenstocks. Carried a weird gadget. Checked the battery pack like he was detecting aliens. Said, “Thermal variance is acceptable.” Then offered pennies on the dollar. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas chasing too few dreamers.” Drove off in a Prius. I felt betrayed.

Then came Maya. Calm. Prepared. Brought her mechanic. Not a buddy. A paid pro. He scanned everything. Nodded at the screen. “Battery health over 90%. Good bones.” She asked if I’d ever taken it to the track. I hadn’t. Too cautious. We negotiated. Smooth. No drama. Signed papers in a coffee place. She paid immediately. I revoked my key fob. Car made a gentle chime. Final.

Walked home. Took the bus next day. Chaotic. Messy. Full of humans being messy. 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 funds. Enough for a motorcycle. Or a savings cushion. Either works.