Like everything else, the feeling of having a home needs to be made. It needs work. Nothing is handed to the vast majority of us on a sliver platter. Heck, I think you're lucky if you get some pie crumbs on a piece of tinfoil occasionally.
As a kid, parents make the home; as an adult, we've got to make our own spaces that are special to us within whatever places, times, and occurrences we find ourselves thrown.
We all have metaphorical holes in our lives that we expect others to fill when it's our own damn job to patch, spackle, and paint over the holes in our soul. It's just my own tough luck that I hate spackling (and don't even talk to me about the sanding that comes after that, oh, are there memories there).