I waited in the driveway. Arms crossed. Coffee forgotten. The car just sat there. Silent. Fully charged. Smug, probably. 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. onlyusedtesla.com This thing saves your seat position. Learns your route. Judges you when you drive aggressively. 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 slick. Sterile. Type in VIN, upload photos, wait for digital handshake. Got offer. Laughed. Blinked. Checked my eyesight. Offer was lower than what my cousin paid for his used lawnmower. And that thing requires prayer to start.
So I went rogue. Listed it on Reddit threads full of EV nerds. People who measure happiness in kWh. One guy even tried to pay me in Bitcoin. Title: “Tesla Model 3 Performance – Quick, Shiny, Mildly Possessed.” Added pictures. One of the dash glowing at night. Looked cinematic. Or like it was auditioning for Blade Runner.
Messages flooded in.
“Can I test drive naked?”
“Does it come with exclusive Autopilot upgrade?” (Spoiler: no. Forever ended during a software update.)
“My psychic says it’s haunted by Elon’s ego. Is that extra?”
One guy drove two hours. Wore flip-flops with socks… during the test drive. Said he wanted to “concentrate on the vibes.” Drove half a mile. 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 surreal.
Then came Sarah. Calm. No-nonsense. Brought her expert. Not a buddy with a wrench. A real pro with tools. They scanned the battery logs. Mumbled things like “Ah, just under 9% degradation… acceptable decay.” Felt like watching someone grade my diary.
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 café. She paid instantly. I revoked my phone key. Car beeped once. Final. Silent. Like a machine’s last breath.
Walked home. Took the bus next day. Chaotic. Full of strangers. Miss the autopilot? Sometimes. Mostly miss the instant torque. And the fact that it never needed gas.
But hey—now I’ve got money. Enough for a vacation. Either works.
Turns out, selling a Tesla isn’t about the car. It’s about admitting the dream you invested in doesn’t match your present. And that’s okay. Some dreams are meant to be driven — then passed on.