My First Car

Six years before I bought my first car, I was a college kid on a subway in Guangzhou, reading Elon Musk’s biography during my summer internship commute. Somewhere between stations, I made a decision: I’d own a Tesla someday.

In September 2022, I did. A white Model 3. Not the Model S I’d dreamed of, but dreams evolve.

Thirteen months later, I sold it. Earlier than planned. Life doesn’t care about your plans.

The negotiation with dealers felt like nothing. But signing that final contract? That hit different. I’d set up Teslamate the week I got the car, tracking every route, every charge. Looking at that map one last time — Shenzhen loops, trips to Chaoshan, roads we’d never take again — I understood what I was letting go.

We never did that long road trip. The one we always talked about. “Next month,” we’d say. Next month never came.

11,400 kilometers in thirteen months. Most of it after I stopped commuting. Most of it just… driving. For the joy of it.

The Model 3 was far from perfect. Brutal midday sun through that glass roof. A ride that reminded you of every pothole. But for two people figuring out life together, it was enough.

I kept things minimal. White paint. Tinted windows. A mushroom-shaped air freshener that somehow matched the wood trim. It became a hat rack eventually. Things find their purpose.

Financially, it was a disaster. Bought at the peak, sold in the trough. Classic.

I don’t care.

A car isn’t an investment. It’s a key. Mine unlocked two spontaneous months in Guangzhou, three trips home to Chaoshan, and hours of holiday traffic that I’ll somehow remember fondly.

You can calculate the depreciation. You can’t calculate what it meant.

Some things aren’t meant to be measured.