I’m back in the U.S. for a couple of weeks. Visiting friends. Seeing family. Doing all the normal things you do when you come home after living abroad.

And within about 48 hours, I was reminded of something I do not miss.

You order a coffee at Starbucks. They hand it to you. Then they swivel an iPad around and say, “It’s going to ask you a question.”

And that question is basically:
“Are you about to feel like a terrible person?”

If you’re new here, I’m an American living in Colombia. I love the U.S. This isn’t an anti-America rant. But every time I come back after living outside the country, certain parts of the culture hit differently. And tipping culture—specifically how it’s now engineered—has gone completely off the rails.

This isn’t about being cheap.
It’s not about hating workers.
And it’s definitely not about refusing to tip for actual service.

This is about how tipping in the U.S. quietly stopped being a voluntary “thank you” and turned into social pressure, guilt, and awkward eye contact—powered by software.

And once you’ve lived somewhere else, it’s impossible not to notice how strange this has become.

Tipping used to mean something.
It was a reward for service. Real service.

Someone waited on you. Checked on you. Made your experience better. Went a little above and beyond.

That made sense.

But now?
I walk into a place. I order at a counter. I wait. I pick up my own food. I carry it myself. I clean up after myself.

And I’m expected to tip 20%.

For what?
The successful transfer of an object?

You didn’t bring me anything.
You didn’t check on me.
You didn’t refill anything.
You didn’t even leave the counter.

That’s not service. That’s a transaction.

And let me be clear: people absolutely deserve to be paid fairly. No argument there. What I don’t understand is why that responsibility keeps getting shifted onto the customer at the exact moment of payment—under social pressure.

Tipping used to be extra.
Now it feels like a cover charge for existing.

Here’s where this really went sideways.

Tipping didn’t just increase.
It got automated.

Square. Toast. Clover. These payment systems didn’t just make transactions faster—they made pressure easier.

Instead of a tip jar, you now get:

This is no longer a private decision.
It’s a public moment.

You’re not tipping because you feel generous.
You’re tipping because you feel exposed.

And the wildest part?
They don’t even say “tip.”

They just say, “It’s going to ask you a question.”

Yeah.
And that question is basically: How badly do you want to avoid this awkward moment?

That’s not tipping culture.
That’s user-experience design doing emotional manipulation.

They don’t walk away.
They don’t look down.
They don’t give you privacy.

They just stand there.

There’s a line behind you.
The screen is glowing.
Time slows down.

And suddenly you’re not thinking about service at all.

You’re thinking:

That’s not gratitude.
That’s optics.

And if I’m being really honest, there’s another thought that sneaks in—irrational, uncomfortable, but real:

“If I hit ‘no tip,’ is this person going to remember me?”

Let me be very clear:
I am not accusing workers of doing anything wrong. Most people are professionals. Most people would never mess with someone’s food.

But the fact that the thought even exists tells you how broken the system is.

You should never feel fear.
You should never feel anxiety.
You should never feel like there’s a consequence for selecting “no tip”—especially when no actual service was provided.

The moment tipping becomes something you do because you’re worried, not because you’re grateful, it stops being a tip.

It becomes compliance.

The person behind the counter didn’t design the system.
They didn’t choose the default percentages.
They didn’t decide that 22% should be the starting point.

They’re stuck in it too.

But businesses figured something out:
They could quietly shift wages off their books and onto customers—and let software do the uncomfortable part.

Instead of raising prices honestly.
Instead of paying people more directly.
They let a screen create guilt.

The customer feels manipulated.
The worker feels awkward—or quickly gets used to it.
And the business pretends it’s not involved.

That’s not generosity.
That’s outsourcing payroll through peer pressure.

And that’s why everyone’s irritated:

When a system makes both sides uncomfortable, it’s not culture—it’s bad design.

Here’s the part that really hits once you’ve spent time outside the U.S.

This tipping anxiety?
It’s not normal.

In most of the world:

You pay the bill.
You leave.

If someone went above and beyond, you leave a little extra.
And that’s it.

Wages are handled by the business.
Tips are a bonus—not an obligation.

So when you come back to the U.S., that iPad moment feels insane. Because once you experience a system without guilt baked into it, you can’t unsee how strange this one has become.

I’m not against tipping.
I actually like tipping—when it means something.

A tip should be:

It shouldn’t be:

Because the moment tipping becomes mandatory, it stops being a tip.

It becomes a fee.

If businesses need to charge more to pay people fairly, then just charge more. Be honest. Put it in the price. Let tipping return to what it was meant to be—a genuine “thank you,” not a guilt tax.

I’m not cheap. I tip well for great service.
I just don’t want to be emotionally blackmailed by an iPad for a basic transaction.

And honestly, after living outside the U.S. for a while, coming back makes this whole thing feel… really strange.