When The Job Comes Home: The Personal Toll Of Digital Forensics

by Paul Gullon-Scott BSc MA MSc MSc FMBPSS and Fiona

Throughout my 30 years of service in policing, I was committed to protecting and serving others, but the most challenging chapter of my career came during the 14 years I worked as a Digital Forensic Investigator. Those years placed me at the forefront of confronting some of the darkest aspects of humanity, as I sifted through countless traumatic images and videos documenting the abuse of innocent children. It was work I felt compelled to do, knowing that every piece of evidence could safeguard a child or bring justice to a victim. But the relentless exposure to such horrors took a heavy toll on my mental health and overall well-being.

On reflection, when I found myself at my lowest, I knew I wasn’t the only one affected by my struggles. My family, especially my wife and children, and some very close friends bore the weight of those years alongside me. One of the most under researched areas is the vicarious effect of our role on our families and friends. I asked my wife Fiona to write down the effect it had on my family.

This article, written by her, is my own story and aims to give a voice to the experiences of those who stand by us during our most difficult and dark moments. It’s a deeply personal reflection on the impact that these roles can have not only on those who do the work but on the loved ones who support us.

I asked her to write this because I want to shine a light on the unseen effects of such work on our family and friends and to advocate for better mental health support for those who walk this difficult path. Her words are a testament to the strength, resilience, and compassion of the families and friends who endure so much, and to the need for real change in how we care for those on the front lines of these traumatic professions.


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I write this as the wife of a Digital Forensic Investigator who ‘broke’ under the pressures of the job, but who thankfully, through the right support and intensive specialist therapy, came out the other side. I was asked to do this to give voice to the families, and whilst this is of course a hugely personal experience and everyone will be different, I have no doubt people will relate to some of what I write.

My husband was always someone who believed that strength came from containing emotions and shielding the family from the horrors he saw daily at work. He strove to compartmentalise his day job from his home life, never speaking about what he had dealt with or seen at work, pushing that deep inside. ‘Support’ at work was a once yearly 10-minute chat with Occupational Health, after which they wrote a couple of sentences stating he was fit to work. I knew different though. When I would try to talk to him, ask what was wrong or offer an ear, he would deny any problem, saying: “It’s nothing” or “Doesn’t matter”, and shut down any conversation. But it was obvious things were not OK. He was becoming more and more irritable, less able to sleep, spent more time in his own thoughts, increasingly built a ‘wall’ around himself that I could not penetrate, and pushed me away. He started smoking more and more, frequently snacking late at night yet failing to finish a single decent meal, losing weight and looking gaunt and haggard. With friends or wider family he would put on an act of joviality, of ‘normal’, but even that started to slip, and people who had never seen him anything other than caring, kind, interested, and full of enthusiasm for life, started to see more and more frequent glimpses of negativity, grouchiness, and disengagement.

I watched as he started to drink more each weekend, to the point that alcohol was a means to knock himself out in order to sleep (I learned this fact later – at the time, all I saw was a husband getting blind drunk almost every weekend without fail). I cycled between feeling concerned for him and his health, through feeling angry that he was drinking to the point he couldn’t walk straight then lurching off to bed leaving me alone downstairs, to feeling pity for this man who was always so strong and now seemed broken and beaten. I don’t think he ever knew I felt pity; I think it would have broken him further to have known that.

When he was drunk, whatever walls he was trying to build to contain the horrors would weaken, and it would all come out. It came out in various ways. Sometimes he would break down and cry uncontrollably, voicing things I could not understand and speaking of ‘the pink baby’ through wracking sobs and heaving gasps for air.  Sometimes he got angry, was short tempered with me and our children, snapping and barking at the smallest comments or actions. At worst he would throw things, slam doors, storm out. Sometimes in his sleep he would flail around or lash out, punching or kicking me without realising as he battled the demons in his head.

Paranoia started to creep in, and he would make remarks suggesting I didn’t love him, that I thought he wasn’t good enough, that I wanted someone else – all his own thoughts of himself being reflected outwards. His mood was constantly low and negative, so the ‘norm’ became a kind of constant silence interspersed with occasional superficial chat, and as a family we dreaded the weekends, tiptoeing around so as not to trigger any outburst. I would try and excuse or explain any upset to minimise the impact on the kids, but they started to retreat from him and hide away in their rooms at those times, often sending me messages seeking reassurance or needing to talk to me through their fear that something bad would happen. I wrestled with my love for him and my own sense of self, hating myself for starting to wonder if I should leave for my sake and our children’s, never wanting to but crying alone at night at the thought that I may have no choice. I was determined not to let go of who I knew him to truly be, but it was incredibly hard at times.

On several occasions, the horrors he tried to keep away from the home came out, and in his drunkenness he would tell me things he had had to watch and listen to at work. Things he – in sober daytime – insisted he would never share because they were just too awful, describing the sounds, the screams, the images. He never remembered the next day that he had done this, nor did he remember the times he kicked or punched me in his sleep, or accused me of wanting to leave him, or any of the other things that spilled out of his mind from that place of darkness.

At one of his lowest points, after we had argued over nothing, he stormed out of the house in such a state of distress and turmoil I was intensely worried for him. He had turned off his ‘find my friends’, ignored all my calls, and I had no idea where he was or what he was doing. In desperation, I rang one of his best friends, who called him and managed to get through and was able to reassure me he was just getting some headspace. I recently found out he had in fact driven to a local bridge and was contemplating taking his life. Whatever it was that stopped him from doing so, I am eternally grateful.

I and friends tried many times to speak with him and voice our concerns, but these were frequently dismissed. He would diligently go in to work day after day, arguing that if he didn’t do so, then who would save the children being abused? Day after day he would come home a shell of who he used to be. Then finally one day – after months of low mood, drinking, weight loss, poor sleep and other signs of depression and trauma – he conceded that he needed help. I could see the immense effort it took for him to acknowledge that. I could see he thought it made him weak, that he wasn’t being a man. I could see his self-esteem was on the floor; he was utterly broken. We did all we could to communicate that the decision showed strength not weakness, that we were all so proud of him, but all he could think was that he was letting people down, he was letting the children down, he had failed. With much persuasion, love, and encouragement he went to the GP and was signed off from work on long-term sick leave.

Initially he was sent to a counsellor through the Employee Assist Programme. That was, quite frankly, utterly useless. They didn’t have the skillset to deal with the things he was carrying. However, we are lucky that through my work I could source someone qualified in trauma, even though it meant we paid privately, and I am ever grateful to her, and to my husband for attending that first appointment with her. I would pay privately again in a heartbeat to bring the right support to someone I love. It took 13 months of specialist trauma therapy, but the difference was immense. I got my husband back; he was lighter in spirit; he could smile and laugh again.

I look back on those times, the months of darkness and pain, for my husband and for us as a family, and remember the times I nearly walked away. Had my husband not taken the unbelievably brave step to seek help when he did, we may not have survived. I am ever grateful to him for being the man I always knew him to be, for facing his demons and staying with the trauma therapy, for not letting PTSD break him. It so easily could have been different.

Now, several years on, his lived experience not only in the DFI job but of what that job can do to a person, coupled with his sheer determination to help change things so that other DFIs do not have to go through these stressors alone, to raise awareness of the very real risks for vicarious trauma, and to improve mental health and wellbeing support for DFIs, has made him a leading light in the field. I am supremely proud of him and all he does, and I hope that when he reflects on those dark times he can see his strength and the eternal love I and our family have for him.

The PTSD, the darkness, still sits in there, and every now and then it emerges momentarily. I don’t think it will ever go away. He can never unsee or unhear the things he had to deal with over the years, and quite frankly I cannot even begin to imagine how incredibly horrific that must be. Thankfully though, he now knows it for what it is, and knows how to respond to it in a healthy and constructive way. I am behind him 100% as he strives to bring this positivity to fellow DFI’s.


Knowing the toll my work has taken on my family is one of the most difficult truths I’ve had to face. For 14 years as a Digital Forensic Investigator, I was exposed to the worst of humanity, hundreds of thousands of images and videos showing the abuse of children and other horrors. It was work I felt compelled to do, believing it was my responsibility to protect the vulnerable and seek justice. But I failed to see how the horrors of my job were not only eroding my own mental health but were also devastating the people I love most: my wife, our children, my wider family and good friends. I failed to see how I was failing those I love.

Looking back, I see the pain my silence and emotional withdrawal caused. I believed I was shielding them by bottling everything up and carrying the burden alone, but in reality, it created walls that pushed them away. My struggles manifested in ways that hurt them – irritability, emotional distance, and behaviours that I am deeply ashamed of. It breaks my heart to know they had to tiptoe around me, fearing my outbursts or silence.

My wife’s strength and compassion carried us through those dark times. She stood by me, even when I know she questioned whether she could endure it. Her love and resilience are the reasons I eventually found the courage to seek help. I cannot explain how difficult it was for me to look her in the eye and say: “I can’t do this anymore, I’m done”. Her reaction was one of immense relief and love. I will forever regret the pain I caused her and our children, and I am profoundly grateful for their patience, love, and unwavering belief in me.

This realisation is why I asked my wife to write about our journey from her perspective. I want her voice to be heard because it represents the silent struggles of so many families affected by the unspoken traumas of roles like mine. Her perspective sheds light on the vicarious toll this work takes on our loved ones and reinforces the urgent need for better mental health support, not just for professionals but also for the families who support us.

As Fiona points out, I will never be able to unsee what I’ve been exposed to, but as I continue to heal and now spend many hours working to raise awareness about these challenges, I carry a deep sense of responsibility to those who might still be suffering in silence. If sharing our story can help even one family feel less alone or one person seek the help they need, then it is a step towards making amends for what my family endured. I will always be grateful for their love and forgiveness, and to my very good friend who rang me that day and simply talked to me. I now strive every day to ensure I honour my wife, children, wider family and close friends by being the husband, father, uncle, brother and friend they deserve and know me to be. I dedicate this article to my own wife and children and the families of DFIs who are enduring similar experiences. Your resilience and strength are inspiring. Don’t give up on your hero; your unwavering support can make all the difference in their journey.

If anyone out there reads this story and feels inspired to share their own journey, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me at paul.gullon-scott@forensicfocus.com. Your story matters, and by sharing it, you may not only help others but also find the process to be deeply cathartic and healing. Together, we can foster understanding, support, and a sense of community in this challenging yet vital field.

I’ll leave you with something I have learned on my journey:

“Even in the darkest chapters, the decision to ask for help is a powerful act of bravery and self-respect not weakness. Healing is not a solitary journey; it’s a collective effort built on love, compassion, and understanding.”

Paul Gullon-Scott BSc MA MSc MSc FMBPSS is a former Digital Forensic Investigator with nearly 30 years of service at Northumbria Police in the UK, specializing in child abuse cases. As a recognized expert on the mental health impacts of digital forensic work, Paul now works as a Higher Assistant Psychologist at Roseberry Park Hospital in Middlesbrough and is the developer of a pioneering well-being framework to support digital forensics investigators facing job-related stress. He recently published the research paper “UK-based Digital Forensic Investigators and the Impact of Exposure to Traumatic Material” and has chosen to collaborate with Forensic Focus in order to raise awareness of the mental health effects associated with digital forensics. Paul can be contacted in confidence via LinkedIn.

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