Watching artists over a long arc of years reveals a lot of interesting things: What changes, what stays the same. What you thought were their strengths, what their strengths turn out to be.

James Galway was one of my favorite flutists growing up. My aunt bought me his CDs and at least one book about him. Like so many, I liked the twinkle in his eye. The way he was more accessible to the viewer than Jean-Pierre Rampal; the way both of them made it look easy, but Galway made it look like he was having fun. I once called him a “jolly elf.”

As an adult, I went to see him perform live with the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. My significant other at the time was mystified by my “jolly elf” characterization, because by then he was no longer young. The twinkle in his eye was still firmly in place, but much of the bounce was gone. And yet, I was truly touched by this performance.

He was still technically excellent; that hadn’t changed. Hasn’t yet, as far as I know. What had changed was that it didn’t look effortless anymore. He didn’t grin impishly at the end of a demanding and beautifully executed piece. Instead, the slightest droop of the shoulders told me it had taken a lot out of him. It was touching. It was better than if he’d made it look easy. Because it made him so human.

Suddenly, I could identify with him. I’m a flutist, too, but I had never identified with him before that night. Pieces like that are hard work. They were never effortless for me. I’m sure they were never effortless for him either, but I was never anywhere near his level, and I never had the leeway to make it look like I wasn’t struggling for it—like I wasn’t tired. So he was always outside the realm of what I could identify with. But that night, James Galway was tired. And in that moment, he was so human to me. I felt him. I related to him. And it felt good, to have that connection.

I didn’t get to see him live while he was in his prime, and sure, that’s a bit sad—but I saw him at a good time. It was a good night.

When I think about myself as a translation artist, I think I’m in the same place now that Galway was in his jolly elf days.

I have the insecurity that all good translators (and other artists) need in order to avoid complacency, but I also have a lot of confidence. I know who I am. I’m less famous than a lot of my fellow entertainment translators; I don’t Tweet regularly, and I rarely bother to sell myself anymore, because I don’t have time for anyone to buy me. But I know I’m one of the best in my field, and I try to help others be better. I’m in my prime. On the stage, as it were—in the public performance that my published work is—I probably make it look easy.

Some parts of it are easy now. Some of the things that used to faze me aren’t even road bumps anymore. Other things that used to faze me are still just as tough, but these days I can approach them without much fear. Once you’ve climbed enough mountains, one more mountain doesn’t inspire the same kind of fear that your first climb did.

But, of course, it’s still work. At the end of the day, creative translation will always be a difficult task. It’s hard work, and I get tired. If you know me in the context of my everyday life, you’ve seen me half-dead from translation. (Maybe more than half.) But in front of the general public, it’s easy to wear my game face and keep on going. I’ve taught rooms full of people about audiovisual translation, both at translator conventions and at anime conventions, and I don’t get visibly tired while the metaphorical (or literal) cameras are still on, because it’s my work and I love it. I’ve been asked questions by eager fans about shows of mine while I’m dead from those shows, and if they’re really in love with it then they will never hear about those feelings. I smile and answer them with, “I thought the most interesting thing about that project was…”

My work is also not perfect. I can’t and won’t nail it every time, because no one nails it every time. One of the reasons the true greats like James Galway “make it look easy” is because they don’t flinch at every mistake. They just keep going as if they’d nailed it. And so if there are a few notes that weren’t quite right, they still seem like they nailed it to anyone who doesn’t already know the notes. But later, they’ll know exactly what they wish they’d done differently. Maybe they’ll beat themselves up about it, like I sometimes do.

And some other “later” years after that, maybe they’ll realize they didn’t know. Maybe as they get older, the things they wish they’d done differently change.

So I wonder, now, how I will look to young translators when I can’t hide how tired I am after a performance anymore. Will my vulnerability touch someone? When the puns don’t come as easily to me, will it make some other punster feel better?

More importantly, will I still have the same generosity of spirit as James Galway, who even when he’s tired rallies himself to circle the stage, turning his back on the main house to dedicate part of his encore to the people stuck in the seats behind the orchestra?

I worry that I will not. Some days, the work takes so much out of me that I feel like soon there will be nothing left for the audience. But I can hope that on my better days, I’ll still make the effort to smile and say “The most interesting thing about that project was…”

Thank you for letting us see you with your guard down for a moment, Sir James.