Tatooine was never home for Luke Skywalker. He was never content to be driven by the winds, tossed about like the sands; he anchored himself with a stubborn dream, and clung to it like the twin suns to their horizon. Given a lifetime to tinker with droids, he would never have been fulfilled with being a creator – he wanted to be a created thing, a child of dusty legends and impossible stories, carved in trial and tempest. He wanted to leap headlong into the Force and all it might unleash.
(It was more than he bargained for.)
Jakku is the only home Rey has ever known, or cares to know. She swallows all other possibilities like quicksand, burying hope of the beyond so deep that she'll never find it again, if all goes according to plan. The sands may shift, but here she'll stay. The galaxy may crumble to ashes, but certainly her family will return. So she lives in skulls of someone else's war, building peace out of the wreckage, with no interest in setting her face to the winds and walking into a storm.
(The storm will walk into her, instead, so much more than she bargained for.)
Luke Skywalker was always a hero, forced to scavenge for flashes of the life he ought to be living, wild with the will to escape small conflicts for true challenges.
Rey is a scavenger whose calloused palm trembles against a hero's fabled sword-hilt, her fear like an ocean around a faint blue-white flame of faith.