What Your Tip to Your Uber Driver Says About You

I saw a video recently that a lot of people were reacting to. It showed a DoorDash delivery at the White House, where the driver received a $100 tip. Naturally, people started debating all kinds of things—politics, PR, taxes, fairness. And sure, those are all valid conversations. But that’s not what stood out to me. What stood out to me was the tip itself and what tipping actually says about a person.

I’ve done over 15,000 Uber rides, and over time I’ve realized something simple: tipping isn’t really about money. It’s about meaning. A tip is one of the few moments in modern life where someone makes a completely voluntary decision to recognize another person. There’s no algorithm telling them what to do. There’s no requirement. It’s just a choice. And in that moment, people reveal something about who they are.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that most people fall into a few general categories when it comes to tipping. There’s the non-tipper, and more specifically, the person who says they’re going to tip but never does. You’ve probably heard it before: “I’ll tip you in the app.” Most of the time, that tip never comes. What makes this frustrating isn’t just the missing money—it’s the false signal. It creates the feeling of generosity without the action. If someone truly doesn’t believe in tipping, I’d almost respect it more if they said it upfront. At least then it’s honest.

Then there’s the calculator—the person who treats tipping like math. Eighteen percent, twenty percent, maybe twenty-five if they’re feeling generous. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s fair and consistent. But it’s also transactional. It says, “I’m doing what’s expected.” It checks the box, but it doesn’t leave much of an impression.

And then there’s the third type—the abundance tipper. These are the people who don’t calculate. They just give. These are the tips you remember, not because of the dollar amount, but because of what they represent. I’ve received $100 tips, $120 tips, even more than that, and every one of those moments stuck with me. Not just for the day, but sometimes for weeks or years. Because those tips weren’t about the ride. They were about recognition.

I still remember the first time I received a $100 tip. It wasn’t from someone trying to show off wealth. It was a truck driver during COVID, right around Christmas. His truck had broken down, and he was traveling with his son, trying to get back on the road. I drove them from a repair shop to a hotel, and at the end of the ride, he handed me $100 and said, “Merry Christmas.” That was it. No speech, no explanation. Just a simple act of generosity. I’ll remember that moment for the rest of my life.

I’ve also experienced the opposite. I once picked up a passenger who asked me to stop at a vape shop on the way home. He told me he’d take care of me in the app. During the ride, he talked about how successful he was—real estate, money, everything. We pulled into a massive house with a long driveway and multiple garages. Before he got out, he looked at me and said, “You’re going to make it.” And then he left. No tip. That moment stuck with me, too, but for a completely different reason.

What I’ve come to understand is that a tip is not just a financial transaction. It’s a signal. It tells the person on the receiving end, “I see you. I appreciate you. This mattered.” Even a $1 tip can carry that meaning, especially when it comes from someone who doesn’t have much to give. In some cases, that $1 means more than $100, because it tells you what it cost that person to give it.

In a world where so much is controlled by systems and algorithms—pricing, routing, ratings—tipping is still one of the last truly human decisions left. It’s one of the few moments where someone can step outside the system and choose to give. And in that moment, they reveal something real about themselves.

I’m not here to tell anyone how much to tip, and I’m not trying to shame anyone either. But I do believe this: how you tip says more about you than it does about the person serving you. Because in that small, voluntary moment, when no one is forcing your hand, you reveal something about who you are. And people remember that.