I didn’t sell my Tesla. I banished it. Like a spirit that feeds on electricity. It parked there daily. Shiny. Wordless. Judging me. Every time I walked past, the app buzzed. “Cabin Overheat Protection active.” Like it was showing off. Showing off how clever it thinks it is. Meanwhile, my savings account looked like a sad graph trending down.
I bought it on a wave of hype. Call it midlife flair. Join today Everyone said, “Go electric! Future’s bright! Save the planet!” So I did. Drove around feeling like an eco-warrior with a 0–60 in 3.2 seconds. Then reality hit. Coverage. Rubber. That weird costly repair after someone vandalized the charge port. For fun? Revenge? Who knows. It wasn’t even Tesla red.
Selling it should’ve been simple. Famous last words.
Tesla’s trade-in quote came in cheaper than a broken lawnmower — and he still thinks DVDs are cloud storage. I stared at the number. Snorted. Then wilted over my latte. Was this really all my electric fantasy amounted to?
So I listed it myself. Listed it on every site. Marketplace. Forums where people argue about battery degradation like it’s sports stats. One guy messaged: “Does it come with a guru subscription?” Another wanted to see if it hummed at night.
First real bite: Mark. Had a beanie collection. Owns multiple Teslas. Showed up with a tablet, not a wallet. Ran diagnostics. Checked firmware version. Said, “Hmm. Still on 2023.3.1. Bold choice.” Offered a lowball. “Market’s flooded,” he said. “Too many Teslas chasing too few charging spots.” Left in his Nissan Leaf. I felt insulted by proxy.
Then Emily. Cool. Prepared. Brought her father. He didn’t say much. Just nodded at the frunk, checked tire tread with a coin, asked one question: “Any parasitic draw?” I told him yes, about 1–2% overnight. He turned to her. “Good sign. Means it’s alive.” Sold.
Signing paperwork over coffee. She paid by transfer. I hit “revoke access” in the app. Car made a final beep. Like a sigh. Felt weird. Like kicking out a digital squatter.
Now I drive a used Honda. No tablets on wheels. No software pushes. No car that tattles. But I saved enough to fund a vacation. Maybe Greece. Somewhere with no Superchargers. No guilt. Just sun, sea, and zero amps.
Turns out, letting go of a Tesla isn’t about the machine. It’s about realizing the future car doesn’t fit your current life. And that’s okay. Some dreams are meant to be driven — then passed on.