I was born shortly after my father finished his service in the Army and we toured America and most of Canada in an MGB GT for many years while my father worked to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up. We literally moved every few weeks. I remember my father knocking on farmers' doors asking if we could pitch a tent in their field for the night and that we would be gone by morning. Yes there are some fond memories of the nomadic lifestyle but mostly I remember the visceral awareness of not having roots. I think (IMHO) that we as a species have an innate sense or desire to have roots - to be established or to belong.
I hate moving. In my adult life moving was frequently associated with a negative life change - death, job loss, divorce, relationship ending, etc... The only thing I hate more than moving is moving someone else's crap. I have moved my brother and sister-in-law five times in the nine years I have been with my wife.
As it relates to my parents, once my father did finally figure out what he wanted to be and passed the Bar, we never moved again. My parents stayed in that house until several years after my sister completed college and got married. That was commendable in my eyes given the constant upheaval in my younger days. Even so the angst of moving has stayed with me to this day. Despite the fact that my wife, son, and I moved to a very nice home in a beautiful community with amazing neighbors the move still re-animated all those negative memories and emotions for me.
To the OP - yes, moving is a pain in more than the rear-end; it slams the heart in even the crustiest of us old bastards.