COMPASS PEAK IMAGING, LLC

Owner

Professional Radiology

Musculoskeletal Radiologist

DocPanel

Underserved Communities Foundation

Member Board of Directors

Principal

Outpatient Imaging

Co-Owner

Diagnostic Outpatient Imaging

University of Chicago Medicine - NorthShore University HealthSystem

Fellow Physician in Musculoskeletal Radiology

Rush University Medical Center

Resident Physician in Diagnostic Radiology

Resurrection Health Care

Preliminary Medicine Resident

Radiologist-Entrepreneur | Owner at Compass Peak Imaging | Advocate for Intentional & Elevated Living | Building High-Impact systems

I'm a radiologist and entrepreneur who believes that exceptional medicine and an  abundant life aren't mutually exclusive.

As owner of Compass Peak Imaging, I ensure patients and doctors get precise, actionable clarity quickly, reliably, and without the usual imaging related frustrations.

More importantly, I'm passionate about proving something many physicians and professionals overlook: that you don't have to sacrifice your health, family, or joy to excel.

Over the years, I've developed practical, intentional systems that let me practice radiology, operate a growing imaging business remotely, and enjoy rich, meaningful experiences.  I travel widely, spend quality time with family, and prioritize what truly matters to me.

No shortcuts. No guru talk. Just tested strategies to help you reclaim your time, work more effectively, and thrive personally.

I share openly so physicians, clinicians, and ambitious professionals can build a career and life that reflects who they genuinely want to be.

If you're tired of burnout and ready for actionable clarity in your scans, your business, and your life, let's connect. Follow along or reach out.  I'm here to help.

Ankur Patel

I've probably "wasted" six figures on my backyard.

Pool. Hot tub. Outdoor kitchen. Pergola. Basketball court. Playground. Turf that cost more than my first car.

My financial advisor would cringe. That money could be earning compound interest right now.

But most nights, we are out there playing backyard family football on that very expensive turf. Nightly football games that started three years ago and somehow became the highlight of everyone's day.

We play longer than planned. The kids beg for five more minutes until it's too dark to see the ball.

I could have made more financially optimal decisions. 

I chose to make decisions that felt right for this chapter of my life instead.

And that's the thing about intentional living. It's not about making the "best" choice according to some universal scorecard. It's about making the choice that aligns with what matters most to you, right now, in this season.

Kids are only kids for so long.  Nightly football games won't happen forever.

I'm completely at peace with this choice because it wasn't impulsive. It was intentional.

We're quick to judge how others spend their money. The colleague who takes expensive vacations. The friend who drives the luxury car. The neighbor with the elaborate holiday decorations.

But we never see the full picture of their priorities, their season of life, or what they're willing to trade for what matters most to them.

Maybe the real win isn't optimizing every dollar. Maybe it's giving ourselves permission to spend in alignment with our values, without guilt or justification.

What choice are you making right now that others might not understand, but feels completely right for where you are in life?

Radiologist | Owner at Compass Peak Imaging | Advocate for Intentional & Elevated Living |

My dad woke me up at 5:30am every weekday in middle school.

Not for sports practice. Not for chores.

For homework.

I was not a natural "love school" kid. Math felt boring. Reading comprehension seemed useless. I'd rather have been anywhere else.

But every morning, there we were at the kitchen table. Him with his chai, me with my confusion and complaints and annoyance.

He never just gave me the answers.

Instead, he'd ask questions. "What do you think this problem is asking?" "What happens if we try this approach?" "Where have you seen something like this before?"

I'd get frustrated. He'd stay patient. I'd want to quit. He'd find another way to explain it.

Those 5:30am sessions transformed me into someone I wasn't naturally.

I became a hard worker. A good grade getter. That identity stuck and carried me through everything that came after.

35 years later, I'm at my own kitchen table with my son. Same frustrated sighs from him. Same "I don't get it" moments. Same exhaustion in my bones after a long day.

But now I catch myself reaching for his pencil to just write the answer.

And I finally understand what my dad was really doing.

He wasn't teaching me homework. He was teaching me who I was capable of becoming.

When we give kids the answers, we teach them they need someone else to solve their problems. When we guide them to think through challenges, we teach them they are problem-solvers.

That belief becomes their identity. And identity becomes reality.

The kid who learns "I can figure this out" becomes the adult who tackles challenges head-on. The kid who learns "someone else will handle this" becomes the adult who waits for rescue.

It doesn't have to be 5:30am. But it has to be intentional. Consistent. Patient enough to sit through their frustration and your exhaustion.

Because you're not just helping with homework.

You're deciding who they'll become.

What identity are you helping your kids build about themselves?

The real signal of mastery is what you leave out.

The radiologist writing a three-page report isn't more thorough. They are just more insecure.  

I review dozens of reports every week. The pattern is unmistakable.

Some radiologists write novels. Lists of differential diagnoses. Maybe this, possibly that, consider the following. They mention every ditzel, every incidental finding, every remote possibility.

They think they're being comprehensive.

What they're actually doing is burying the answer the referring provider needs in pages of intellectual hedging.

The best radiologists I know use the least amoutn of words needed. "Minimum Viable Product".  Clean. Direct. Confident.

"Mass in the right upper lobe. Suspicious for malignancy. No evidence of distant metastasis. Recommend tissue sampling."

That's it. No hedging. No medical school flexing. Just the answer to the question that was asked.

The difference isn't knowledge. The other radiologist probably knows more about rare zebra diagnoses than the attending who's been reading scans for twenty years.

The difference is confidence. And clarity about who you're serving.

One is writing to impress colleagues. The other is writing for the patient lying on the table waiting for an answer.

We all used to be the novelist. Every report was a dissertation. I thought thoroughness meant mentioning everything I noticed, even if it didn't matter.

Then I realized something. The surgeon calling at 2 AM doesn't need my differential diagnosis expertise. She needs to know if she's operating in the morning.

Every profession has its version of this. The consultant who delivers 40 slides when the CEO asked for a recommendation. The lawyer who writes memos that read like law review articles. The architect who can't explain why this design serves the family living in it.

We mistake complexity for competence. Volume for value.

Are you communicating to serve the actual need? Or to demonstrate how smart you sound?

True expertise shows in what you choose to leave out, not what you pack in.

What are you overcomplicating just to prove you can?

The most ethical thing I do as a physician isn't what you think.

It's staying profitable.

This sounds backwards until you understand the impossible game healthcare entrepreneurs play.

Once I left fellowship and entered private practice, I discovered something that kept me up at night. Unlike every other business owner I know, I can't control my main revenue driver.

Insurance companies decide what I get paid. Not me. Not market forces. Them.

Here's the paradox most entrepreneurs never face: I must be profitable to be ethical.

If my imaging center closes, patients lose access. If I can't pay my technologists, scans don't happen. If equipment breaks and I can't replace it, diagnoses get delayed.

Staying in business isn't greed. It's survival to serve.

Traditional business advice falls flat here. "Just raise your prices" isn't an option when insurance sets the rates. "Cut costs" has limits when patient safety is non-negotiable.

We operate in a unique triple constraint. Fixed revenue per volume. Ethical obligations. Business survival. All three must coexist.

The real skill isn't maximizing profit. It's finding sustainability within impossible margins while never compromising care.

Most entrepreneurs control their revenue levers. 

We control everything except the one that matters most.

What challenge would your business face if someone else set your prices but you still had to deliver excellence?

The habit that makes you a great doctor will eat you alive as an entrepreneur.

Medicine trains you to consider 47 possibilities before making a move.

That works for diagnosis.

It's deadly for progress.

When I started looking at buying a practice, I did what any good physician would do.

I built a differential.

Market analysis. Financial projections. Staffing models. Equipment depreciation schedules. Three-year growth scenarios. Competitor assessments. Risk matrices. Population growth analysis. And on and on.

I spent four months on a business plan that looked like a fellowship application.

My wife asked me one night: "So when are you actually going to make an offer?"

I told her I needed to finish the analysis first. Make sure I'd considered everything. Rule out all the risks.

She stared at me.

"You're not planning. You're stalling."

She was right.

In radiology, complexity equals competence. The more differentials you consider, the better the doctor. The more nuanced your read, the sharper your skills.

So when I approached business, I brought that same framework.

More analysis. More scenarios. More contingencies.

It felt like diligence.

It was actually fear dressed up as thoroughness.

The physicians who move fastest don't have better answers.

They have simpler questions.

Not "What are all the ways this could fail?" but "What's the one thing I need to be right about?"

Not "How do I build the perfect staffing model?" but "Can I hire one good person and adjust from there?"

Not "What's the comprehensive marketing strategy?" but "Can I call three referring docs this week?"

Complexity doesn't protect you.

It paralyzes you.

And worse, it makes you feel smart while you stay stuck.

I talked to a radiologist last month who'd spent six weeks researching business structures. LLC versus S-corp versus C-corp. Tax implications. Liability scenarios. He had a multi-page comparison document.

He still hadn't called a single imaging center about partnership opportunities.

Because simple feels reckless when you've been rewarded for being thorough your entire career.

But business problems aren't diagnostic puzzles.

They're action problems disguised as information problems.

You don't need more data.

You need one clear right next move.

The decision that actually changed my life wasn't the 40-page business plan.

It was three questions I scribbled during a call with my accountant:

Can I cover the down payment without destroying our savings?
Do I believe this team can execute?
Will I regret not trying?

I had answers in 30 seconds.

Everything else was noise I created to feel competent while avoiding the discomfort of deciding.

What are you over-engineering right now because a simple answer feels too easy to be right?

You don’t fear failure. You fear being average again.

I spent 10 years becoming excellent at radiology.

That excellence nearly trapped me forever.

Here's what nobody tells you about mastery: It makes you terrified to suck at anything else.

When I first thought about buying a practice, the financial risk didn't scare me.

The incompetence did.

I'd spent a decade training my brain to be certain. To catch subtle findings. To never miss. To be the expert everyone turned to.

Then I sat in a conference room with my CPA discussing LLC structures.

I understood maybe 40% of what he said.

Nodded through the rest.

Took notes I couldn't decipher later.

Walked out feeling like a fraud.

Not because he judged me. Because I judged myself.

For 10 years, I'd been the one with answers. The authority. The person who knew what the images meant when nobody else could tell.

Now I was asking basic questions about business insurances and vendor contracts. Things I should have learned years ago. Things everyone else seemed to already know.

It was humbling.

And that almost kept me exactly where I was.

Medicine trains us to be right. Radiology demands it. You can't read a scan and say "probably fine, maybe." You have to know.

That certainty becomes your identity.

Which means stepping outside your expertise doesn't just feel risky.

It feels like becoming someone lesser.

Most physicians never leave. They optimize the career they've mastered instead of building the life they actually want.

Not because they don't crave freedom.

But because being a beginner feels like failing.

Here's the shift that changed everything for me:

Competence isn't fixed. It's transferable.

The discipline that made me good at reading scans made me good at running a business. The pattern recognition I used for pathology worked for operational problems.

I didn't need to be excellent on day one.

I needed to be willing to be average for a while.

The expertise trap is invisible until you try to escape it. Then it's the loudest voice in your head, telling you to stay where you're already good.

But growth doesn't happen in mastery.

It happens in discomfort.

You'll ask questions that feel obvious. You'll make decisions that feel like guesses. You'll spend months feeling incompetent at things that seem easy for everyone else.

That's not failure.

That's the entry fee for something new.

What are you not building because you're too afraid to be bad at it first?

The radiologist who texts back in 3 minutes isn't more valuable. He's just more replaceable.

I was that radiologist.

Phone on my nightstand. Inbox open during dinner. Responding to "quick questions" at 10 PM because I didn't want anyone to think I wasn't committed.

The irony? I thought instant availability made me indispensable.

It made me invisible.

Here's what I didn't understand back then. When you respond to everything immediately, people stop seeing you as a physician who solves complex problems. They see you as a vending machine that dispenses answers.

Press button. Get response. Move on.

Medical training wires us for this. Respond fast. Be available. Service excellence through responsiveness.

It works beautifully in the reading room.

It destroys you everywhere else.

I remember the moment it clicked. Saturday morning, 8 AM. Reviewing a MRI knee when my phone buzzed. A referring doc asking about an MRI protocol. Simple question. Two-minute answer.

Except I'd already answered three "simple questions" before breakfast.

And I suddenly realized: None of these required a radiologist. They required a protocol document and five minutes of someone else's time to look it up.

But because I always answered, nobody else bothered to learn.

I'd trained an entire system to interrupt me instead of solving problems.

The next week, I ran an experiment. Four-hour communication blackout every morning. No texts. No calls unless a true emergency.

The first few days were brutal. People were frustrated. I felt guilty.

Then something shifted.

Questions got better. More thoughtful. People started checking the protocol library before reaching out. My tech team started handling workflow issues they'd been cc'ing me on for months.

And when I did weigh in, it actually mattered.

Strategic unavailability isn't about being difficult or playing hard to get.

It's about teaching the system to value your input by making it finite.

The best radiologists I know aren't the most responsive. They're the most deliberate about where they spend their attention.

Because they understand something most don't, real value isn't created in three-minute bursts between interruptions.

It's created in the unbroken hours where you're designing better systems, mentoring your team, or building something that scales beyond your personal availability.

If you can be reached anytime for anything, you're not essential.

You're just convenient.

And convenience doesn't build practices. It builds burnout.

What would happen if you became unreachable for just 2 hours tomorrow?

Optimization is slowly killing our joy.

I felt that the morning I bought a camera I did not need with money I probably should not have spent.

It was a quiet Saturday. Early light coming through the windows. My kids still asleep. I had been scrolling on my phone, looking at old photos, and I realized something. 

Every picture looked the same. Clean. Sharp. Efficient. 

But empty. No texture. No feeling behind it. Just snapshots taken in passing.

So I bought the Fujifilm anyway.

The built-in filters. The weight of it in my hands. The slow, deliberate click of the shutter. It brought me back to how I used to shoot photos when I was younger. Slowing down. Framing moments. Actually noticing life instead of capturing it on the go.

Three months later, the camera sits on the kitchen counter most days, because we use it constantly. 

Real photos. Intentional ones.

My 12-year-old asks for it now. He studies shadows on the floor. Waits for the right moment instead of firing off twenty shots. 

Last weekend, we spent half an hour hunched over the table, editing photos together. Sunday morning stuff. Nothing fancy. But one of the best parts of my week.

That is the trap with optimization. 

We tell ourselves we only need the thing that works. The efficient option. The logical choice. Then we wake up one day and realize we optimized away the part that brought us alive.

The camera cost more than I wanted to spend. It does something my phone already does. By every financial measure, it was the wrong choice.

It was also the best.

Not every decision has to make sense on a spreadsheet. Some choices only have to make sense to your soul.

What have you optimized out of your life?

The fastest way to get lost is to keep moving.

I've spent my entire post-fellowship career trying to figure out how to get to the life I want.

The problem? I never stopped to define what that actually was.

Just kept building. Adding. Scaling. Motion felt like progress.

A few years ago, I caught myself researching my third potential business idea this year. A course platform. Then consulting. Then this and that. Different markets, different models, same pattern.

Jump straight to "how do I build this?" without ever asking "what am I building toward?"

Medical training doesn't help here. We learn to act fast, decide quickly, move to the next case.  Reflection feels like procrastination. Pause feels like falling behind.

But what I'm discovering is that you can't scale your way to clarity.

The HARD work has to happen first. The uncomfortable work of sitting still and asking what you actually want your next 1-3-5 years to look like.

Not perfect answers. Just directional clarity.

Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is nothing at all. Think. Play with ideas in your head. Run tiny experiments instead of building entire systems.

Test if your thinking is actually true before you commit months to proving it.

I'm not talking about paralysis by analysis. I'm talking about intentionality. Building toward something specific rather than just building because you can.

The hardest part isn't figuring out how to scale something.

It's pausing long enough to know if it's worth scaling at all FOR YOU.

What are you building right now without knowing where it's supposed to lead you?

Tiny invisible cuts.

I used to end most days feeling like I didn't get it done.

Well I still do sometimes.

Not because I lacked ability. I knew I could handle the work. But somehow 5 PM would arrive and I'd stare at my list wondering where all those hours went.

I even woke up early.

It kept bugging me, like a itch you can't get ride of.

So I went digging and the problem wasn't what I thought it was.

It wasn't time management or productivity systems.  I went down the productivity hack rabbit hole, you know what I'm talking about.  I tried so many productive hacks and, well, they all failed me.

For me it was the silent drains I never thought were a big deal. 

The quick check of notifications that somehow became fifteen minutes of scrolling. The "just one second" conversations that stretched into thirty minutes. The mental ping-ponging between tasks that looked productive but left my brain completely scattered.

For me these moments didn't just steal my time. They hijacked my entire mental bandwidth. I would spend the rest of my day trying to remember what I was thinking about before the interruption.

That scattered feeling isn't laziness. It's cognitive overload.

What worked for me:

I started planning and chunking my time the night before. 1-hour blocks for deep technical work. Then either permission to "goof off for 5-15 mins" or back at it for another 1 hour.  I try to stick to this as much as possible until noonish.  Then I allow myself to have some more freedom with my time, I'm not a machine after all, and I need this to work long term.

My afternoon time which is not as rigid is for my creative work, the kind that would be hard for me to fit into a time slot.

For me difference has been day and night.  Forget the production, I just feel better at the end of each day.

When's the last time you felt completely present in your work instead of mentally scattered?

Your most important professional growth probably won’t happen in professional rooms.

I walked into a room full of watch traders and finally understood what real networking looks like.

For years, I'd been a member of this group online. A musculoskeletal radiologist half-heartedly following discussions about Patek Nautilus price trends and vintage Roelxes. 

I wasn't taking it seriously. Why would I? I read medical images for a living. What did I know about luxury watches?

Then I showed up to their first in-person event.

The difference hit me within minutes. These weren't the medical conferences or entrepreneur meetups I was used to. No polished elevator pitches. No business cards being shuffled around like poker chips. No one scanning the room for someone more important to talk to.  Yea you know what I'm talking about.

Instead, I watched a construction contractor patiently explain current market trends to a firefighter who'd never bought anything more expensive than an Apple Watch. Saw a retired pilot get genuinely excited about someone else's first profitable flip. Witnessed complete strangers exchange phone numbers and become trading partners over lunch.

This was everything I'd been missing in two decades of "professional networking."

The difference between transactional and authentic networking isn't subtle once you see it.

In transactional rooms, conversations feel like job interviews. Everyone's calculating what they can extract from each interaction. Help comes with conditions attached. Success is hoarded, not shared.

In authentic rooms, people give away their best insights for free. They make introductions without keeping score. Someone else's win feels like your win too.

The watch group taught me what I couldn't learn from any business book or leadership seminar.

The right rooms don't care about your credentials or your LinkedIn title. They care about whether you show up consistently. Whether you're willing to help before you ask for help. Whether you celebrate others winning as much as your own victories.

I spent years convinced these spaces were myths. That authentic professional connection was just LinkedIn fantasy content.

Turns out it does exist.

The rooms exist. They just may not be where you expect them to be.

Now I'm not at all saying it's only available with watch enthusiasts or that it's not found in professional groups.

What I am saying is find the right rooms, stay in the right rooms, create the right rooms.  

You'll feel the difference.


What unexpected place taught you the most about real connection?

Most of your anger isn’t yours. You picked it up from strangers.

I've been noticing more anger in the world.

Hot takes on everything. Outrage over every news story. People arguing about things that happened three time zones away that they can't control.

I caught myself getting worked up about something last week and realized... I don't actually have to participate in this.

I don't need an opinion on everything. Not everything has to upset me. There's already enough noise out there.

This is part of something bigger I'm figuring out about intentional living. Designing my days instead of just reacting to whatever chaos shows up.

So I'm trying a few things:

I unfollowed the news accounts that just make me mad. I still stay informed, but through sources that actually inform instead of just inflaming.

I ask myself "Does this actually affect my life?" before I engage with controversy online. Nine times out of ten, the answer is no.

I say "I don't know enough about that to have a strong opinion" more often. It's surprisingly freeing.

I protect my mental space the same way I protect my physical space. Not everything gets an invitation in.

The shift has been, well, quiet. Peaceful, actually.

It's been hard.  I want to have an opinion, I want to say something, but I remind myself, stay quiet.  It's not necessary.  

Just how we choose when to speak, we can choose when to listen.

I have more energy for the problems I can actually solve. More patience for my kids. More focus for work that matters.

Turns out, stepping back from every conversation didn't make you less informed. It just made me less exhausted.

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