Last week, I sold my BMW 328i. My red, automatic, heated seats, sunroof-having, hugged the ground, closest-thing-to-a-race-car BMW. I don’t describe the car this way to brag. I bought Halle — Yes, I named my car Halle. Why? Because she wasn’t a newer model but she looked amazing. — in 2012, nearly nine months after losing my job, then my home, then nearly my mind.
I was just coming out of a very dark period in my life when I saw an ad for a 2000 BMW 328i. She was a beauty. There were probably two dozen more reasonable cars I could have purchased, but when I saw her, I knew she was the one. I took a bus, a train, and a cab to the dealership in Virginia. After hours and hours, I drove home in my new-to-me ride.
I drove her everywhere. I wanted everyone to see her, to see me. Halle was proof — PROOF — that I was on the comeback trail. This car was evidence of my ability to bounce back from a hard fall — a physical manifestation of my worth.
She was a a dependable ride for two years before her motor blew. It broke my heart. It would cost $6K to get her back on the road. I skipped that repair and bought a new car instead; a red Jetta that made my heart go meh.
I should have sold the car in 2014, but instead, I paid insurance on it for two whole years before finally pulling the trigger last week. Halle added $100 to my monthly insurance bill, meaning I lost $2,400 holding on to a car that no longer worked because it was tied to emotions of both shame and pride.
Selling that car meant letting go of tangible proof that I’d come out on the other side of hell-fire, so I resisted. Never mind that I was tangible proof of the grace God showed when he brought me through that storm. I became blind to blessings that surround me today because I could not let go of a thing from my past. A thing. An inanimate object. From my past.
After closing the sale, I had a sense of lightness I couldn’t explain; It was like having a huge burden lifted. Selling that car was a breakthrough. A realization that –DUH — my value is not measured by the things I own, or in Halle’s case, the things that own me.