Splitting the Bill

A few days ago I was scrolling through LinkedIn and came across one of those posts that gets people talking. You know the sort. A list of things that apparently really wind people up. It wasn’t a rant exactly, more of a casual vent. The kind of thing that starts with, “Why do people still...” and then rolls into a whole thread of minor irritations.

It had all the usual suspects. People who are chronically late. People who interrupt in meetings and don’t notice. People who bring absolutely nothing when invited to someone’s house for dinner. People who dominate the conversation and don’t ask others how they are. It was a decent list. A bit familiar, a bit funny.

But there was one item that caught my attention and wouldn’t let go. It said something like, “People who won’t just split the bill when you’re out for a meal." That line set off a landslide in the comments.

It seemed a lot of people really, really agreed. They called it antisocial. Petty. Tight. Embarrassing. There were comments like it being a red flag. Another said if someone can’t just chip in equally, they shouldn't come out in the first place. Another that it ruins the mood, and there were quite a few who described it as “not worth the hassle.”

Now, on the surface, it’s a pretty ordinary opinion. It pops up all the time in conversations about social etiquette. I’ve heard it before. You probably have too.

But what struck me wasn’t the post itself. It was the sheer volume of support it got, the speed with which the comments rolled in, the certainty in people’s tone. It was like everyone agreed it was a character flaw. A failure of generosity. A sign that someone doesn’t know how to behave in polite company.

And that’s what made me pause.

Because when people react that quickly, that strongly, to something that might have a perfectly reasonable explanation, I think it’s worth asking why. Especially when it reveals something we might not want to admit. I looked at the people commenting. People who were CEO's, Entrepreneurs. Directors. People who should know better, but obviously didn't. It made me feel quite sick.

You see, I don’t think the issue is really about awkwardness at the table. I think what’s happening is this: a lot of people, often in well-paid or very stable roles, have started to forget that money isn’t neutral. That not everyone at dinner is coming from the same financial position. And that sometimes, behind the request to itemise a meal, there’s something deeper going on.

Put bluntly, some people can’t afford to split the bill evenly. That’s not being awkward. Or tight. It’s being careful. It’s making sure they can get home, pay rent, or buy food the next day. They might not say any of that out loud, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.

At a group dinner, it’s not unusual for a few people to order starters, mains, a round of cocktails, a bottle of wine. They’re not being extravagant. They’re just enjoying themselves. But there might be someone else at the table ordering one small dish and a glass of tap water. Not because they’re fussy. Because that’s what they can manage. That’s what fits their budget.

And if you then suggest splitting the bill equally? You’re asking that person to subsidise someone else’s choices. You’re asking them to pretend they’re fine, when they might not be. And if they quietly say no and ask to pay for what they had, they get labelled as stingy or awkward.

I’ve been that person. I’m a freelancer, and right now, I don’t have regular income. In fact, at the moment, I don’t have any income at all. It’s a dry season. It's not unusual. I’m in the kind of professional limbo that lots of people experience but very few talk about. And that means I have to be careful with the money I have. I don't know when my next pay check will be.

Still, I know how important it is to keep showing up. To stay visible. To accept the invitations that come my way. Meet for coffee, say yes to lunch, go along to the occasional dinner. Because when you work for yourself, that’s part of the job. Staying connected. Staying present. Without that there isn't going to be a future pay check.

But just because I'm showing up doesn’t mean I can spend like everyone else. It means I have to calculate, every time, whether I can afford to go. Whether I’ll need to skip something else later in the week. Whether this meeting might lead to work, or whether it’s just another expense I can’t cover.

So when I say I need to pay for just what I ordered, it’s not a protest. It’s not me being difficult. It’s survival. I do this with my professional networks, and I do this with my friends. I don't buy rounds, and I don't split bills. I can't.

What worries me is how quickly that position gets misunderstood. Or worse, judged.

It’s not just about meals or drinks, either. This kind of financial blindness shows up all over the professional world. In decisions about unpaid internships. In assumptions about who can travel to a conference. In surprise when someone asks for help covering work expenses upfront. In the freelancer who insists on being paid within 30 days. In the design of office social events that quietly exclude those who can’t afford the “optional” extras.

There’s a strange silence around money in a lot of professional circles. We’re encouraged to talk about growth, opportunity, productivity, personal branding. But not about affordability. Not about debt. Not about what it costs to stay visible. Not about the fact that sometimes, saying yes to a lunch meeting can throw your entire week’s budget off.

And when that silence is paired with judgment, when someone trying to make ends meet gets seen as awkward or difficult, we create environments where people have to choose between honesty and inclusion. Pay more than they can afford, or be seen as the one who’s not a team player. That isn’t just unfair. It’s exclusion hiding behind etiquette. As a society we seem to have forgotten about empathy. About seeing things from the other person's point of view.

And here’s where the conversation needs to widen.

Because money isn’t the only thing people are struggling with right now. There’s something else simmering beneath the surface in a lot of workplaces, and that’s fear. Fear that roles are being replaced. Fear that automation is coming for your job. Fear that AI will do it faster, cheaper, with fewer mistakes.

Some people are already seeing it happen. Others are watching it creep in, one tool at a time. And while some are excited by the possibilities, many are quietly feeling the ground shift beneath their feet.

This is where leadership matters.

If you’re in a position of stability or influence, it’s not enough to reassure people with bold statements and future-focused optimism. The throwaway remarks that "AI will create new jobs" as if that gives re-assurance to the admin staff. You might be okay, but they may not. Instead you need to put yourself in their shoes. You need to understand what it feels like to look at your work and wonder if it’ll still be needed next year. Or next month.

Empathy isn’t just a nice quality to have in leaders. It’s part of the job.

And it’s the same kind of empathy you need when someone at the dinner table says, “Actually, I’d rather just pay for what I had.” You don’t need to know their full story to meet them with understanding. You just need to recognise that not everyone’s circumstances are like yours.

Some people are fighting to stay visible. Others are fighting to stay included. Some are fighting to stay employed. Some are struggling with health issues (seen or unseen). Some may be struggling in their family or relationship. The fear might look different but the response can be the same.

All these things may mean that someone behaves differently than you would. They may not be able to come out and socialise. They may bot be able to take part in the physical activities you have planned. They may not be able to be around alcohol. They may need to pay their own rather than split the bill. In all this, don't judge. You don't know what is going on in someone else's life, and the struggles they are facing. You can show empathy instead. Pause. Ask. Listen. Adjust.

Inclusion isn’t just about who gets invited. It’s about who feels they can show up without pretending. Whether that’s in a restaurant, in a meeting, or in the middle of organisational change.

If we can’t offer empathy over something as everyday as a meal, then how will we lead well when the stakes are higher? When people’s jobs are on the line? When someone’s sense of worth or security is shaking?

This is where leadership starts. In the little moments. In how we respond when someone speaks up with something uncomfortable. Or inconvenient. Or simply honest.

So no, I won’t split the bill evenly if I can’t afford to. I’ll pay for my share, and I’ll still bring my whole self to the table. And I hope that’ll be enough.

Because I don’t think this is really about money. It’s about empathy. And we need a lot more of it. In our workplaces and in our leadership.