I stared at it in the driveway. Not moving. Energy bar at 100%. Polished like a showroom queen. My Model 3 Performance. Onyx-colored. Rims spotless. Interior smells like regret and coconut air freshener. I bought it during a midlife crisis that wasn’t even mine. My buddy kept saying, “You’re 38, man, do something crazy.” So I did. Now I’m 41. And I need freedom.
Turns out, selling a Tesla isn’t like trading in your old Honda. Tesla cash value It’s like divorcing someone who ages in reverse. You know it’s necessary. But checking the app keeps pulling you back. “Battery at 92%… preconditioning for departure… Sentry Mode active.” Dude, it’s guarding an empty garage.
I tried the Tesla’s trade-in option first. Tesla Trade-In. Filled out the form. Snapped some shots. Received their bid. Laughed. Then cried a little. They offered less than my cousin paid for his used Mazda that leaks oil. Was it fair? Possibly. Did it sting? Absolutely. Like your five years of updates and supercharging tantrums meant zip.
So I took matters into my own hands. Dropped it in online groups. Car-specific forums. Even a sketchy old classifieds page. Title: “Tesla Model 3 Perf – Fast, Clean, Needs New Owner (Not Emotionally Attached, Probably).” Uploaded images. Tried to look casual. Looked ridiculous.
First message: “Is it cursed?”
Second: “Can test drive naked?”
Third: legit. Guy named Bjorn. Showed up with Crocs and confidence. Loved the imaginary spoiler. Spoiler? Nope. He made that up. Still, he showed up. Started examining it like an investigator. Checked the frunk like there were secrets inside. Ran a scanner. Mumbled things like “Ah, battery degradation 7.3%... acceptable.” Felt like a vet examining my pet.
Negotiation was weird. He offered way too low. Said, “Oversupply kills value.” I wanted to walk out. Gave him a discount instead. Because honestly? I just couldn’t look at it anymore. Needed cash. Needed to stop acting like it was an ex on social media.
Final buyer? A woman named Sofia. Minimalist. Works in sound healing. Wanted it because “it vibrates at a calm frequency.” Whatever gets the check cleared.
Handover day. I gave the screen a farewell polish. Turned off my key card. Watched her drive off. No drama. Just a quiet goodbye. And then—my phone buzzed. App notification: “Vehicle is no longer linked to your account.” Done. Over. Like cutting the cord.
Now I cycle instead. Feel closer to the earth. Or maybe just closer to getting hit by a bus. But hey, no more supercharger lines. And my wallet’s healing. Slowly.