I didn't get rid of my Tesla. I let it go. Like a pet you release into the wild. But this one had a rocket under the hood and liked to beep at stop signs like it was judging me.
It all began with regret. Not moral guilt. sell Tesla older model Financial guilt. I felt like I was feeding a beast with every charge every time I pulled into a Supercharger. I would say, “Eighteen dollars for juice,” as I watched the meter whirl. “That’s three times in therapy. Or one good guitar.”
After that, there was silence. No engine. No sound. Just smooth rolling. Calm? Yes. Until you find out that peace has hidden costs. The insurance rose. Tires were absurdly priced. And don’t even get me started on those “minor” body repairs that emptied my wallet when some idiot hit the door in the Whole Foods.
I enjoy the technology. The upgrades that drop overnight. It self-parks badly but proudly. But after three years, it wasn’t magical anymore. Like a gadget that lost its spark. It still functions. It’s just not special anymore.
So I chose: it’s time to let go. I thought it would be easy. “Hey world, I’ve got a shiny, well-kept Tesla, a documented past, and a whiff of determination.” Nope. Reality slapped me awake.
First, the trade-in offer from Tesla. I snorted. Then I checked again. Then I shed tears in my flat white. They offered a sum insulting enough to make me scream. Their pricing bot must assume I live in a cave and don’t know how to look up pricing on Google.
So I did it myself. Put it on all the sites. Tesla groups. Craigslist. That bizarre site where emojis mean payment. “Tesla Model S: Quick, Clean, Needs a Soulmate.” More pictures. One of just the car. One with me standing too close with a forced smile. That one is gone. It looked like a lonely hearts ad.
There were plenty of replies. Some real. Some absurd.
“Is it able to fly?”
“Will you take payment in Bitcoin or soul?”
“My dog can tell when EVs have bad energy. Can I take him for a test drive?”
One guy came in flip-flops. Took out a multimeter. He looked at the 12V battery like life depended on it. “Well,” he said. Numbers look fine.” Then he offered $8,000 less than market value. He said, “The market is flooded.” Truly delightful.
At last, I met Sarah. Relaxed. Ready. Had a spreadsheet. She asked me about the wear on my tires, the firmware build, and if I had ever used Track Mode (I hadn’t). Too afraid. We debated. Politely. Like two grown-ups. Almost refreshing.
Paperwork signed in a coffee shop. She paid by bank transfer. I turned off my key fob. It felt strange. Like ending a relationship by text.
I strolled away. The next day, I took the public transport. It felt awkward. Very loud. Not fast. But also… strangely peaceful. No more phantom software pings. No more supercharger shame.
Selling a Tesla isn’t merely a business deal. It’s emotional. You’re not just trading tech and steel. You’re saying goodbye to the version of you that imagined perfection was four wheels and a battery.