Texas Border Business
By Roberto Hugo González
Texas Border Business
The hum of conversation fills Don Ponchitos Café Jardín on E. Pike Boulevard, where the smell of fresh tortillas mixes with the sharp scent of coffee. Mayor Adrian Gonzalez can’t make it more than a few steps inside before someone waves him down. Waitresses call him “Mayor,” men in work boots stop to shake his hand, and a retired couple at a corner table nods in approval. He grins, easing into the rhythm of the small café where his parents, Rudy and Eva Gonzalez, have breakfast every morning after Mass.
“This is where I grew up, really,” Gonzalez says, setting his coffee on the table. “My parents go to another restaurant nearby almost every day. My dad still farms, and my mom works at St. Joan of Arc Catholic Church. They stop by after seven a.m. Mass — coffee, pan dulce, the same routine for years.”
The mayor waves as a waitress refills his cup. “These people here, they’ve known me my whole life,” he says. “I’ve been coming here since it opened, and I still go all the time. They’ve seen me at my best — and at my worst.”
That “worst” is not something Gonzalez hides. His life, he says, is an open book: a story of ambition, loss, addiction, and grace that brought him to the edge of death before giving him a second chance at life — and at leadership.
“I tell people, God had a plan for me,” Gonzalez says. “I just had to live through the bad to understand the good.” He pauses, as if rewinding the film of his life. “I was an athlete,” he begins. “Basketball was everything. I was in the gym every day, shooting, practicing. All I wanted was to play in college. That was the dream.”
But the dream didn’t happen. “I was told I was five-foot-nothing, a Mexican kid in the Valley, and people told me I wasn’t going to make it,” he says, his voice softening. “When that door closed, I didn’t know who I was anymore.”
At 18, Gonzalez became a father. “I had no idea how to be a dad,” he says. “I could barely take care of myself. But I wanted to prove I could do something with my life.”
By 25, he had done what no one his age in Weslaco ever had — he won an election as the youngest City Commissioner in the city’s history. “That was 2006,” he recalls. “It felt like everything was happening so fast. I had a family, a title, and a sense of purpose. But inside, I was lost.”
The pressures of public life, the strain of responsibility, and the quiet disappointments of unmet dreams began to eat at him. “That’s when I started drinking,” Gonzalez says. “At first, it was just a few drinks after work. Then it became part of my routine.”
He looks down at his coffee cup, turning it slowly between his hands. “I became what they call a functioning alcoholic. I’d wake up, take my kids to school, come home, take two shots of tequila, sleep a couple of hours, wake up again, take a shower, drink some beers, go to work, and drink through the day. No one knew. I hid it well.”
When his first marriage began to crumble, he told himself solitude would make him better. “I walked away thinking I’d be better off alone,” he says quietly. “But I wasn’t. I was miserable.”
The alcohol didn’t stay alone for long. “I started doing drugs, too,” Gonzalez admits. “That’s when things got really bad. I was still serving, still working, but I was dying inside.”
One evening in 2018, his body finally gave out. “I woke up feeling awful,” he remembers. “It was six in the evening, and I couldn’t get up. Then I started throwing up blood.”
His cousin Josh drove him to the hospital. “The doctor told my dad and my ex-wife, ‘He’s not going to make it. His organs are shutting down.” Gonzalez pauses, his voice catching. “When I woke up, the doctor told me, ‘If you ever drink again, I’ll give you six months to a year. You’re lucky to be alive.”
He spent more than two weeks in the hospital. “When I got out, I fell into depression,” he says. “I didn’t leave my house for six months. I didn’t know what life was without drinking. Every night, I dreamed I was drinking again. I could taste it. I’d wake up shaking and sweating.”
Then one day, he says, he made a decision. “I told myself, either I sit here and feel sorry for myself, or I make something of my life. That was the turning point.”
He poured his energy into rebuilding. His brother-in-law, a paramedic, invited him to join in starting First Care EMS, a family-owned ambulance service. His father helped launch the business, providing the support they needed to get it off the ground. Gonzalez took on consulting and public relations work. “That company saved me,” he says. “It gave me purpose again.”
Faith became his compass. “I grew up in the Catholic Church,” he says. “My mom still works there. Every day, I prayed: God, give me the strength to overcome this.”
Seven years later, Gonzalez says he hasn’t touched alcohol or drugs since that night in June 2018. “That was my second life,” he says simply. “Everything changed.”
Part of that change, he believes, is sharing his story. “I’ve spoken to high school students, men my age, even older,” he says. “I tell them: you’ve got to fail many times before you succeed. The bad you go through — it’s good for you. It teaches you. It prepares you for what’s ahead.”
He smiles slightly. “I want people to know, if I can do it, you can do it.”
His service to the community predates his illness: in 2012, he was elected to the Weslaco ISD School Board, serving until 2016. His “new life” began when he was elected mayor in 2023.
“I ran because I saw what Weslaco could be,” Gonzalez says. “This is the heart of the Mid-Valley. I wanted to put politics aside and focus on what’s right.”
He made infrastructure his first priority. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s the foundation of a city,” he says. “We’re redoing our main corridors —Westgate, Border, Pike, and Airport Drive — and replacing old water lines.”
On July 31, 2025, the City Commission approved a $30 million bond dedicated to improving drainage, parks, and the wastewater treatment plant — a significant measure Gonzalez had, since taking office. “That vote was a big step forward,” he says. “It means we can finally invest where it matters most, in the things people depend on every single day.”
He rattles off the numbers easily: $1.5 million in improvements for Mayor Pablo Peña Park, another $1.7 million planned for Isaac Rodriguez Park. “People see those parks every day. That’s what matters — visible progress.”
The city’s finances, he notes, are strong. “We’ve maintained an AA credit rating and steady sales-tax growth,” he says. “That’s how we keep investing in our future.”
Gonzalez sees Weslaco’s growth as part of a larger regional story. “The county judge told me, ‘Weslaco is the little McAllen,’” he says with a grin. “We have the potential to be the next hub in the Valley. We’re working with the Economic Development Corporation and the Chamber to bring in businesses. Sam’s Club broke ground in September 2025. That’s huge for us — more jobs, more foot traffic, even shoppers coming from Mexico.”
He also wants to attract manufacturing and distribution companies to the Mid-Valley. “We’re right in the middle of everything,” he says. “We just need to make sure we have the infrastructure — water, power, roads — to support it.”
Even with his busy schedule, Gonzalez insists on being available. “If someone drives to City Hall to see me, I go meet them,” he says. “If they make time for me, I owe them the same respect.”
He’s often seen at schools, speaking to students during career days. “It’s important for kids to know who their mayor is,” he says. “When they see me, I want them to know: your past doesn’t define you.”
Outside Don Ponchitos, the morning crowd is thinning. Gonzalez shakes hands with a man heading to work, then steps toward his truck. “I’ve been through a lot,” he says. “I almost lost my life. But I gained perspective. I learned that leadership isn’t about politics — it’s about people.”
He glances back toward the café. “Everything I do now,” he says, “is for them, for my kids, and for Weslaco. I want to leave something behind. Someday I want my grandkids to say, ‘My grandfather helped build this city.’”
He pauses, smiling at the thought. “It’s not about the title,” he says. “It’s about the legacy.”
With that, Weslaco’s mayor heads back to City Hall — another day, another chance to prove that rock bottom can be the beginning of something extraordinary.
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