I waited in the driveway. Arms crossed. Coffee forgotten. The car just sat there. Not moving. Fully charged. Glowing with arrogance. It didn’t need me. And I didn’t need it anymore. But saying goodbye? That’s harder than explaining regenerative braking to your grandma.
Selling a Tesla isn’t like trading in your old Corolla with 300,000 km and a tape deck that eats cassettes. sell Tesla with battery issue This thing saves your seat position. Predicts your habits. Scolds you with range anxiety. It’s not a car. It’s a silent roommate who pays rent in kilowatt-hours.
First move? Tesla’s official trade-in page. Felt clean. Professional. Type in VIN, upload photos, wait for digital handshake. Got offer. Gasped. Blinked. Checked my eyesight. Offer was lower than what my cousin paid for his used lawnmower. And that thing doesn’t even have wheels.
So I went rogue. Listed it on Reddit threads full of EV nerds. Strangers obsessed with battery logs. One guy even tried to pay me in Bitcoin. Title: “Tesla Model 3 Performance – Quick, Shiny, Mildly Possessed.” Added pictures. One of the interior like a spaceship. Looked dramatic. Or like it was thinking bad thoughts.
Messages flooded in.
“Can I test drive in cosplay?”
“Does it come with lifetime warranty?” (Spoiler: no. Forever isn’t a thing anymore.)
“My psychic says it’s haunted by Elon’s ego. Confirm?”
One guy drove two hours. Wore aviator shades indoors… during the test drive. Said he wanted to “concentrate on the vibes.” Drove five blocks. Nodded. Offered far below market. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas chasing too few dreamers.” Left without removing the headphones. Weird? Yes. But also kinda zen.
Then came Sarah. Calm. No-nonsense. Brought her mechanic. Not a buddy with a wrench. A certified guy with scanners. They scanned the battery logs. Mumbled things like “Ah, just under 9% degradation… acceptable decay.” Felt like watching someone autopsy my pride.
We talked price. Friendly. Like adults exist. She asked if I’d leave the floor mats. “They’re not mine,” I said. “They came with the car.” She smiled. “Exactly.”
Signed paperwork in a bubble tea shop. She paid instantly. I revoked my phone key. Car beeped once. Soft. Silent. Like a machine’s last breath.
Walked home. Took the bus next day. Chaotic. Full of humans. Miss the autopilot? Sometimes. Mostly miss the instant torque. And the fact that it never needed oil.
But hey—now I’ve got cash. Enough for a therapist. Either works.
Turns out, selling a Tesla isn’t about money. It’s about admitting the dream you invested in doesn’t match your present. And that’s okay. Some dreams are meant to be borrowed, not owned forever.