For the past 13 years, I have owned a car that was supposed to be the last gift from my grandma.

I bought this car with the money she left for me after she passed away. In many ways, this car became more than a car. It became one of the few tangible things that connected me to her, and to the last chapter of my life in the United States.

This car began its life with me in Los Angeles, and eventually crossed the country with me to New York. It went through multiple local moves and cross-country moves. It went through thick and thin with me: the good days, the bad days, the peaceful days, the chaotic days, and everything in between.

My friends used to joke that my car had traveled more than they had.

And they weren’t wrong.

But despite everything it went through, I preserved it like my baby.

After 13 years, it has only 21,000 miles. Zero scratches. Almost like new. Every time I took it in for maintenance, the technicians would be shocked by its condition.

I took care of it because it meant something to me.

There is always a beginning and an ending to everything – and eventually, to everyone.

My grandma bought me my very first car.

And somehow, even after she passed away, she also managed to buy me what may potentially be my last car in the United States.

When I look at that now, I can’t help but see the symbolism.

She bookended this entire chapter of my life.

One car at the beginning.

One car at what may be the end.

And 30 years of life in between.

After I moved to the East Coast, I hardly drove this car anymore. I mostly use public transportation, so the car spent most of its time sitting in an indoor garage. Every few weeks, I would make sure to take it out for a drive just to keep everything running properly.

But keeping a car on the East Coast isn’t cheap.

There is the garage fee, insurance, maintenance, registration, and everything else that comes with owning a vehicle that barely gets used.

Still, I insisted on keeping it for more than five years.

Why?

Because it connected me to my grandma.

And it connected me to my life in Los Angeles.

It connected me to a version of myself that had lived through so much.

About two years ago, I had an urge to let the car go.

I tapped into my grandma’s spirit and, in my own way, asked her whether I should sell it.

The answer I received was essentially, Don’t get rid of it. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. You still need it.

So I kept it.

Little did I know that shortly afterward, I would have another major local move, and once again, this car became my workhorse. It carried me and my belongings through yet another transition.

She was right.

I still needed it.

But life moves.

And eventually, there comes a moment when something that once carried us forward begins to become something we are carrying.

I have reached that point now.

As much as I love this car, I know I can no longer keep paying month after month simply to store it. It has gradually become more of a liability than a workhorse.

As beautiful as it still is, I know that keeping it forever isn’t realistic.

So I asked my grandma again.

Can I let it go this time?

And this time, I felt a very different answer.

A green light.

Almost as if she could see what I couldn’t fully admit to myself: that I was no longer keeping the car because I needed it. I was keeping it because I was afraid of letting go.

She knew.

She knew that I had been paying to keep a physical object close to me simply because it carried so much emotional meaning.

And somehow, she gave me permission to release it.

I thought I was ready.

Then I actually started selling it.

And my tears suddenly came.

Not a few sentimental tears.

They just burst out of me.

I realized that somewhere inside, selling this car felt like my grandma had died twice.

It felt like I was losing her again.

It also felt like I was cutting off a physical connection to the past 13 years – the years in which this car had been beside me through so much thick and thin, on both coasts, through moves and transitions, heartbreaks and happy moments, uncertainty and peaceful days.

It felt like I was selling a piece of my own history.

For a moment, I wondered if I was making a terrible mistake.

But after I calmed down, something became clear to me.

The connection between my grandma and me didn’t change.

Not even a little.

My memories didn’t disappear.

My past didn’t disappear.

Everything I experienced during those years is still inside me.

The car was simply the container that carried those memories.

And maybe it is time for that container to move on.

This car has spent so much of its recent life sitting in a garage, waiting for me to drive it once every few weeks.

Perhaps it would be happier with someone who actually needs it.

Someone who will drive it.

Someone who will appreciate how beautifully it has been maintained.

Someone who will take care of it the way I did.

So now, instead of thinking about selling it as losing something, I’m trying to think of it as sending something I love into its next chapter.

And maybe that is what life asks us to do sometimes.

To love something enough to care for it.

To cherish what it gave us.

And then, when the time comes, to let it continue its journey without us.

Goodbye, handsome.

Thank you for riding with me.

Thank you for carrying me.

Thank you for keeping me safe.

Thank you for crossing the country with me.

Thank you for being there through all the thick and thin.

Thank you for carrying pieces of my life that I will never forget.

You did your job beautifully.

And now it’s time for you to have another life.

As for my grandma…

I know she’s still with me.

And interestingly enough, ever since I started posting the selling ad online, I have felt her energy showing up around me more and more.

She’s making sure I do everything safely.

She’s making sure I handle the sale correctly.

She’s making sure I don’t get scammed.

She’s still being that grandma.

Even now.

Maybe that’s the part that makes me smile through the tears.

Because I thought selling this car would mean losing another piece of her.

Instead, I’m realizing that perhaps she is reminding me:

You never needed the car to keep me with you.

I was there when you got your first car.

I was there when you got your last one.

I was there through all the years in between.

And I am still here as you begin whatever comes next.

So I will let the car go.

I will keep the memories.

I will carry the love.

And I will keep driving forward.

Because maybe the real gift was never the car.

The real gift was knowing that I was loved, and that love is something I can take with me wherever the road leads next.

Kari Light ❤

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Photo of Kari Light’s car, July 2026.