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I lost the weight. The dimpling stayed. I lost the twenty pounds. The jeans got loose at the waist, my arms looked like mine again, but every time I changed in front of the mirror my eyes went to the same place — the back of my thighs, the dimpling that started after my daughter was born and never left, no matter how many squats I added or how clean I ate. I'd turn sideways, then turn back, then pull the towel a little higher. At the park I wore leggings even in July. At the pool I wrapped a sarong around my waist before I'd even stood up from the chair. I started picking outfits around what they hid instead of what I liked. My trainer noticed before I said anything. I'd been tugging at the hem of my shorts between sets, and after class one morning she pulled a pair of compression leggings out of her bag and told me to try them — not for the workout, just to wear. She said half her clients lived in them. I almost laughed it off. I'd tried shapewear before; it dug in, rolled down, left me counting the hours until I could take it off. These were different. I wore them under jeans the first day, just to see. The line of my thigh looked longer, smoother, like the dimpling had been pressed quiet under the fabric. I wore them to the grocery store. I wore them to pick up my daughter from preschool. By the end of the week I'd worn them to the gym too, and my legs felt held — supported through lunges, steadier on the treadmill, less wobbly on the last set when my form usually goes. A month in, I bought shorts. Real ones, mid-thigh, the kind I hadn't owned in four years. I wore them to the park with the leggings underneath and didn't think about my thighs once the whole afternoon. I watched my daughter on the slide instead of watching who might be looking at me. The twenty pounds gave me back my jeans. These gave me back everything else.